Harsh across the hollow, a crow calls.  In the distance, 

a blue-tinged smoke hovers over the vast blue mountain

            a rustle of wind — 

                        on the decayed pine stump

                                    beard lichen glistens

Mountain laurel and flame azalea are stippled through-

out the clearing: so thickly massed are the rose and

 purple rhododendron, they seem afire

            old grist mill:

                        under the wooden water wheel

                                    a half-buried arrowhead

The surrounding wilderness is tangled with a thousand 

rich odors of tree, bush, and flower.  Yet all — juniper

and doghobble, sweetgum and lilac, persimmon and red-

bud — all contain their particular winey essence of woodland.

            somewhere nearby — 

                        smoke from a wood-burning fire

                                    pungent river-cane

Fog lingers, heavy beside the mountain, gathering

into itself an enormous silence.

            a pine cone falls

                        and meters the stillness — haze

                                    brushes the balsam