A mallard swims
in the beaver pond,
the sunlight makes
green praise of its head
and for an instant
the whole world
revolves around
emerald sheen.
There is little else
that’s green here,
though it is late spring—
but over 10,000 feet
the snow tends to linger.
This is a place where
the mind doesn’t hesitate
to offer its attention
to the sharp scent of trees,
to the snaking trickle of snowmelt,
to the thrill of cold air
in the lungs. And in giving
itself away, the mind
becomes clearer, becomes
a shining and natural thing,
like a mallard wing, like
a tree just before leafing,
like a canyon in which
the lush green world
is just about to emerge.