She calles me to secluded pools
along quiet shores
beneath canopies of White Oak
and Red Cedar.

My pace slows –
thoughts diminish,
sounds hush
in this cloistered place.

I sit in shadows smoking
a soft cigar,
the full moon peaking
above the ridge.

Beyond dense timber,
purling water
and tree frogs abide
a humble campfire.

I have no need tonight
for noise,
no desire
for that other life.

Only primal sounds matter:
these ancient rituals
merging fire and water,
earth and sky.

Ken Hada
from The Way of the Wind
(Village Books Press, 2008)