the gods are present

a misty afternoon on the river
warblers call from alder thicket
and grouse drumming
deeper back among popples
root me to the ground.
no spectator at
these ancient rites
all are initiates
from the first breath
to the final one.
dog chases her nose
from branch to
stone to winter’s
dry grass rustling
we dance tossed in
the same wind that
flings the pine boughs
and sends the opsrey
swirling down the sky.

bees hum their way from
the flowers of one season
to the next with such
devotion
from the spring bells of blueberry
and the delicate catkins of the trees
on to summer’s wild orgy of
color and shape
apple, rose accacia,
lilac and peony and iris
primrose, violet and sage
and autumn’s stately thick furred
spires of mullein among
the blues and pinks of asters
a ritual of choreographed
desire and satiation.