Moss

The silent river mud and cinnamon ferns 
   gave way to the padding of our feet 
   until we reached the rocks
where
   a gentle gurgle could be detected  
   behind the Spring’s wind
   and purple martins’ song
Those nervous birds flitted from evergreen to newly leafed walnut
   above a path worn from other hikers and timid deer in search of drink
The narrow trail led the way to a small stream...
The wood noise and your breathing from the climb
   were the only music
while cascading sunlight splintered foliage overhead
   and reflected like holiday sparklers on the water’s dancing surface
We climbed
   until the waterfall caught our breath
   and pausing - (but for a heartbeat)
   we ascended the wet stones and small pools trapped
   by time and geological rock bowls
Somehow
   a fallen tree like a balance beam before the strongest flow
   lay a precarious walk to the edge
   of a rock wall covered with rivulet brachythecium
Droplets poured and spat form that wall of moss
   while our raised fingers and palms made contact
   carrying miniature rivers in tickling trails
   downward from wrist to elbow
   from underarm to anticipating torso
   wetting clothing and waking senses
   along dancing paths
Our souls bumped that day
   locked in the isolation
   of a silent moment
   and wet moss