I’m strolling through Berkshires’ oaks and maples,
trees older than anyone I know,
having, unlike, my grandparents,
survived the axe.
And here’s the river, a stream really,
no promotion despite its years of service
to the scenery.
Longfellow could have dipped his fingers
in these icy waters.
Or Thoreau. Or Hawthorne.
And these granite outcrops
may have hosted
the Iroquois confederation.
In their later years, that is.
In truth, they have ice-age
written all over them.
Ageless foliage, ceaseless waters
timeless rocks –
how long the lives
that fill the mindless landscape.
How briefly here,
the ones who do their thinking for them.
