Lying on the Wet Ground Next to Oak Creek

If these were not the last days of winter

I would not be here, on my back

beside this great bend of water.

For I have tried this too many other times

in other less violent seasons

to know that it takes the snow packed

two thousand feet above

and the total cooperation of the- sun

to form a flow fierce enough, to create

a cacophony of clatter-the breaking of branches, the slap

against rock, the necessary hiss and gurgle—

for meditation. In silence my thoughts

can never be-the anticipation of sound

a lead weight-but here, with the cold reaching

up to my jaw and my breath

as heavy and fragrant as sweat,

the echo of sound jarring the land,

this orchestra of thaw, I can lie,

void of mv own, silent as nothing.

Sid Miller