Circle It

for Terry Tempest Williams, on the occasion of a good walk in the woods

“Circle it,” she suggests, inscribing a peephole
      with thumb and forefinger.  A lesson passed on
      from her grandmother, a way to pick out
      the details of the whole.  To learn to value
      what you otherwise might never notice.

Our group wanders down to the bank, and along
      the river; the afternoon sun comes and goes.
      We notice trees, and birds, and light, and mostly
      the world, revolving its way back to spring.  The dying time
      is nearly over.  “Is it finished?” the birds call, the ones who have
      survived, and answer one another back: “Almost. Almost.”

Three ducks, back from warmer climes,
      make a wide turn overhead and pass us again as they
      double back.  One of our number arrives from the far end
      of the trail, joining our slow progress.  “Oh good,”
      she laughs, “at least we can say one of us did the full loop!”

But before we turn back, we gather in a ring
      to remember an icon, an activist, a writer, who did not
      survive the winter.  A man who learned that finding peace
      is not enough; you must bring it home.
      Make it real in your life; close the circuit.
      Who accepted that we are creatures of love
      and beauty and greed and destruction all gathered
      into one.  Who resolved to fight the bullshit even
      when it was a losing battle, and wrote about our inhumanity
      even as he was dying.  And now he’s gone, only the expanding ripples
      showing where the pebble of his life passed through us.
      And the world spins, and spins, and spins.

Back at the trailhead, just before we part ways,
      we promise to return next week, and we
      throw our arms around our friends.