Waterleaf

As I walk through the waterleaf, I feel, with joy, the old forest–the dark, furrowed cedars, the tall oaks in the clearing, the endless paths untouched by pavement. Not long ago there was only ivy here, but now the waterleaf has won. The sun holds close to their fine-haired leaves, lighting them from above and below so they glow like lanterns. I wind through, walking faster, uphill, around the bend, and then running, running past the fallen log, through the curtain of ferns, to my hidden spot, the place where distance folds, the break between maples, the hillside where I once held the gaze of a perched hawk, the open space where you can see far, beyond, to the river’s pale distance, and the white crown of the mountain, hovering like a cloud above the horizon. I kneel among the ferns to watch the far-off ripples. I reach out. I feel the movement of the air, the mountain, the treetops, the fast-moving place where the river meets the sea, and I know that the waterleaf has guided me home.