Whirling Water and Tinkling Drops

Its been weeks since Pasha and I have been for a wander in the forest, but today, 

in an afternoon break from relentless rains, we steal away amongst the sparkling 

mosses and dripping branches. We pass the garden, a flattened mass of tall flowers, 

duck under the sweep of hemlock boughs, and enter a glowing world of greens and browns. Pasha leads the way on the well-worn path, his excitement is apparent in 

the bouncing of his gait. I can feel the forest's ancient embrace wrap around me, a 

voice gently whispers that I've been missed. Off to the west, the river's gushing roar 

joins with trickles of the small streams, not a human-made sound can be heard. 

We pause at a small pool just as a gentle breeze shakes drops from 

the branches. Glass wind chime-tinkling sounds and 

  whirling patterns on the water's surface - gifts from 

the forest's unseen pattern-maker. 

I walk now, with an eye to spinning, whirling patterns.

Pasha springs upon the whispering stone, as is his way, 

pausing to scan for creatures. 

At my feet a mound of moss wears horns of white fungi. 

A different assortment of mushrooms has bloomed 

in the forest, I'm amazed by the variety. 

The patterner paints more magic on the surface of a swelling pond. 

Always, as we walk, we find each other's wildness. 

Back in the garden, 

a very wet morning glory gently folds in 

on its starry center. 

By tomorrow, the blue will shift to red 

and the delicate translucency will melt away.