Small Things

Small things

In late April, I find trailing arbutus in flower

under the ridged old white pines.

In early May, I discover the first hermit thrush

singing within the hemlocks

its spiraling opera.

Every day, new things arrive,

or bloom, or are born, or die.

I try to find as many of them as I can.

I don’t collect them in plastic bags,

or put them in vases,

or pin them on cardboard,

or exile them to my freezer,

or eat them.

I just try to find them.

Sometimes I find them with my ears,

sometimes by nearly stepping on them,

sometimes they just come to me.

If I were to put them all in a container,

they would look like nothing more than where I am now

which is lying under a white pine

that is leaning over the river

a river flowing so softly I can only hear it

now and again

amidst the birds that sing

among the needles that fall.

- John Bates