Things That Travel.

My body warm and worn
wants streams that are lived in

where trees droop into cool
water, where insects doze, wander
as I do, here across fields on dirt paths
and over bridges.
The leaves are small and light, delicately
punctuate the ripples on the surface
of the water glaciers have made.

I can't see straight; sweat runs down my
back and front, meticulous in its travels,
finds me
like rivers on the map
moss and spider's trails
find their ancient way into my mind,
not hurried but calm, not grasping
laced over my hands refracted in wandering river.

If I were to think, to strain, if
my voice were to echo through the canyon,
would I start some forest fire
some rock slide
would I hear only myself
where the river joins
parts and
finds its mate again?

would I hear only myself
or would my words be returned?