READERS OF LOAM
Wet loam below a mountain waterfall
Is like a tattered page from out a book,
Rich with high tales of passing mountain folk . . .
Is like a tattered page from out a book,
Rich with high tales of passing mountain folk . . .
Look! in the silt that rims the pool and holds
The milky flood in a black cup of onyx—
Here! in the broken ferns, a crippled elk
Tarried a moment in his flight, to drink,
To nibble at the birch; and on his heels,
Flinging from lustful tongues a foam, flecked red
As any livid toadstool, came coyotes! four! . . .
The milky flood in a black cup of onyx—
Here! in the broken ferns, a crippled elk
Tarried a moment in his flight, to drink,
To nibble at the birch; and on his heels,
Flinging from lustful tongues a foam, flecked red
As any livid toadstool, came coyotes! four! . . .
Here! where the rill meanders a silver yarn
Among the brackens, looping their broken jade,
Ptarmigan stepped like solemn wooden soldiers,
A mother and her palpitating brood.
Spearing a globe of crystal water, each
Soberly rolled it down his gullet, blinked
A crimson lid, and pecked at the dryad's pollen. . . .
Among the brackens, looping their broken jade,
Ptarmigan stepped like solemn wooden soldiers,
A mother and her palpitating brood.
Spearing a globe of crystal water, each
Soberly rolled it down his gullet, blinked
A crimson lid, and pecked at the dryad's pollen. . . .
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