after a long summer rain in the valley,
our drive home along the creek was quiet
and serene. we could see freshly watered patches
of grass deep into the forest, whose bright green
color contrasted sharply against the trunks of
pine and oak. the stream was awake as it made
its way along the forest floor, bubbling and
and winding with the color of dirt.
the tiny patches of grass seemed
to be small island meadows as the stream
wandered and weaved along their edges.
i imagined what it would be like to be smaller
than a blade of grass, and how the little
stream would seem to be a great river
as i peered my head out from behind
the grassy forest. turtles and frogs and
salamanders would be my dinosaurs,
fern fronds and flower petals my boat,
mushrooms my umbrella,
and hollowed out tree trunks my home.
i thought of what a great adventure
crossing the rushing stream would be,
and how wonderful an accomplishment
crossing a mere mile of wilderness
would be when my steps were only
a millimeter in length. i decided
that we could become the lewis
and clark of that world, and discover
what no other island meadow dwellers
dared to dream of. for the world
of the stream grasslands is surely
still thought to be flat by the snails
and the newts and all others
who call such a place their home.
and the newt who decided to look
upward and claim there to be something
further beyond the tips of the tallest
trees, or a world beyond the forest,
would surely be called a fool. but
from the outside looking in, he is
clearly no fool, but a dreamer
and a thinker, who will one day
know he was on to something
very much bigger than himself.

After winter comes the spring