A Depression

Stumbling down the stream below the damwhere a hatch of sulfur duns risealmost as slowly as if in water, I clutcha handful of spearmint I’ve rippedfrom the smallest of stream peninsulas.The forecast storm finally lowers.Thunder rolls. I think to hurry.Farther downstream the tree bouncingwith great blue flowers is ultimatelya Revolutionary maple shot fullof holes and sky behind. A strange nature danceof an answer to the sulfurs, samara twirland fall from the tree in a tailspin wind.

At the swirling pool I fished an hour ago,a dozen swallows do their tornado impressionwith a frivolous giggling. The sky loses blue,and my shortcut on a deer path through the brushdips into an exhausted gravel pit. Ash treesshadow the empty space of three houses.I wade into chest-high phlox and fern.A light rain begins, hardly breakingthe canopy. The car is a hundred yardsthrough the next thicket. It waitsrolling its eyes like a bored shark.Yet here, this depression so close to homewould be a great place for a dead body.

In the way this spot contains virtuallynothing, I am reminded of a painting:the interior of The Tomb of WilliamThe Silent in an Imaginary Church.The only thing missing is a tapestried horse.The pillars of trees darken like so many bedpostsand everything wants to pray me down to sleep.

The air hangs as heavy and mellow nowas evening’s workhorse neck, full of plowing.If I could lie down and rest hereand pose for one effusive photographamong the pink and white on green,it would ruin everything. Is someone ringinga dinner bell? I have mint in my hand.