In a high-sided dell the trail turns back on itself,
held down by loose river rocks.
I slow there, forced into procession by the earth walls and sliding stones.

There’s a blackberry bush that welcomes all comers:
tooth-bristled branches leaning green tongues out
to taste the spring morning air.

Just this morning,
it was covered in pale and delicate flowers with just a couple blossoms each
…like a flock of lacewings had all stopped to rest
on blackberry time
in silent meditation of the dawn.

Maybe, long after I’d impatiently peddled away
braying after Rosco like a rude donkey,
maybe they fanned their wings together,
and all flitted into the air like fine paper
caught in a wind,
no car waiting for them,
no purpose of a morning except to fill that moment
in a dusty little hollow with the unexpected,
and with passing beauty.