After the rain the woods
are full of frog song
and the little creek 
has gotten into everything.

My hands are muddy
and so are yours because
the stones keep crying
to be lifted free.

Hurry now.

The way unfurls ahead
past the beaver castle,
past the heron’s haunt,
and into the thicket 
where the new leaves 
turn their tender cheeks 
to light.