If actions speak louder than words,
then this place is screaming.
It is so quiet here, I think to myself.
It is then that a dial turned in my ear.
I can hear bird’s sonnets in the trees.
Only been listening to what’s near.
I want to go back there
and see it right.
When we backpacked through
to Beaver Falls one night-
I only stared and kept pace,
with a boy with blonde hair,
who paired sure-footed with grace.
And I would go everywhere
with him inside the garden.
But if I were to be left behind,
I might have seen my surroundings then.
I was too busy watching blonde hair
I do not remember canopy colliding
but only his golden locks turn brown
Nor green creeks, instead his blue eyes.
My mouth constantly dry as his neck
I was convinced I’d seen his gaze
Stinging through clear sky blues.
Me, me, as he glanced back and every
time I see my muddied hiking shoes,
I want to go back there.
On my own, and walk.
To forget his nature, his hair
and the smile in his talk.