Woods of West Dunbar

Meandering it's way through the woods
This old stream I sometimes will sit beside
Not visible from Minson Road or asphalt walkway
These hillocks thick with underbrush and tall trees
Beech, hickory, hornbeam, oak, paw paw and sycamore
Their boles and tangled bare branches of somber grey
Rising to my feet while gazing at an ancient poplar
Probably older than America, it still passes time
Beside this old stream ever since it sprouted
Centuries ago when no one owned the land

A triangular white quartzite arrowhead
Washed out of the bank further upstream
Caught in the shallows where I plucked it out
Wondering if it tipped some hunter's spent shaft
Knowing Tsenacommacah lays under this humus and clay
Ground far older than the mindset now deciding it's fate
Those so far removed from where my feet now tread
Resting upon my waking stick, looking across stream
Above me the shrill cry of a fleeing red tail hawk
Followed by the loud cawing of several crows

While watching this ancient feud continue
Crows haranguing a hawk through the trees
Time is frozen and for awhile I forget my name
As this bickering fades into the dark distant pines
Replaced by a thrasher and wrens rustling fallen leaves
Thoughts of what remains to hold so dear in my heart
Destine to be written down and shared with others
Those of some imagination and a love for nature
Come sit with me for awhile by this old stream
The conversations we could have into dusk