To the left is a bank full of acorns and alder
Its emerald cascade of fungus
And fern
Almost fools you
Until you realize the silence
That the bright birds of summer
Have flown

On the trail behind you
A sharp crack
Or a stirring amidst old leaves
Startles that
Relentless hope

It bounds from its bitter cage, tongue wagging
Only to meet the jubilance of squirrels
Or another nut fallen
From that high, old oak

It is not her
Whomever
She may be

Many seek you
Though mostly
In all the wrong places
And hearts like yours
Are elusive

But if ever she’s to be found
It is here
That she would be

Then there is the water
And that great wall of mountain beyond
Their distance overcomes you
And you realize the silence

Just distance
The lapping of waves
That the bright birds of summer
Have flown

 -- James Krueger