Above the river gorge, a line of trees taking shape as green women
in the fog.
Listen, you can hear increase of light as a kind of ringing.
All night long, roots of Douglas fir hold their ground
fingers working in the soil, binding the hillside together.
Three feet down in darkness, beneath the foundation of the house
I hear balls of gravel tumbling against one another.
Sounds like bells
the kind that children tie in laces over tongues of their shoes.
Millions of them tinkling.