In the cold
the trees split and surrendered their limbs
from the base that divided them as they grew.
The sound traveled deep cracks within the mountain
and the trestle did not sing.

A song of mourning broke across the back of the river,
a double digit wooden split. It began at root and ran
the distance to the sky. The stone did not speak of hardness,
as has been said, nor echo the voice of the wren.

It was not our stone when an anchor of winter froze the creek
and snow polished clean tracks across the distance.
When such voices speak, am I not to listen?

The sign says caution- heavy truck traffic.
We are near the West Fork Trail, on the Middle Mountain Road.



Poetry

Information on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Ginger Bush