bluelining

i found the idea to be so quaint when i first heard of it

pick up your atlas

flip to a page

find the blue line

and follow it

it feels so novel, so serene

when you put everything else down

nature picks you up

now i’m sat here

combing through maps for dams, creeks, rivers, chutes,

flumes, washes, drainages, and swails

sifting through the pages

like black peat in the treads of my boot

it feels good to remember

even the places i haven’t been

i remember them in their most idyllic, timeless state

suspended at their very best

wouldn’t that be nice

if we could all be so lucky

as to exist in that perfect frozen light

wan and hoary, guilty by its own departure

so i’ll find a spot along the water

roll my pant legs above my knees

sling my bag over my shoulder

affix my gear between bared teeth

and ford the river towards peace

am i lost yet?

wasn’t that the whole point?

to forget everything in the fleeting hours

of the crepuscular creep

until i’m alone beneath the canopy of aspen and pine,

the pastures of my mind laid bare before me.

the banks of the creek are cut sharp,

overhanging the rush of the current

trout shimmer and shiver back and forth

plumbing and roving for a meal

they see me and i see them

so that makes it right?

does the scared beating of my own heart

matching the flush of their gills

consecrate this exchange?

i’ll never walk in the same river twice

the first time i arrived

and every time i come back

the feeling will begin anew

My father always admired John Muir.

They’re both deeply religious,

deeply humanist,

deeply in love with nature;

in men like that,

the unity between their relationship with God

and their relationship with Nature

produces something euphoric.

from their example,

i learned to love the natural world,

and believe that i could uncover intimacy and solace

in my search for my own moment of buzzing,

vibrant,

radiant peace,

each individual part of the whole

interlocking so perfectly

in chaotic, clamorous unison

that they cease to be many

and altogether, as one

give rise to nothing but stillness,

and the chittering of warblers,

the ragged croak of bullfrogs,

the roaming hum of dragonflies,

and the creaking of trees overhead as the morning light chases the sleep from their stiff limbs

antipyretics that blanket my fevered mind

stilling its crescendo back down

into a laborious thud, thud, thud,

the beating of my heart in lockstep

to the beat of the woodpeckers’ drum,

the babble of the brook beside me

a veil of whispers shushing me to sleep,

lulling me back to the comfort of the cradle.

i feel like my very soul has been taken ransom

by the smell of the pine needles baking in the morning sun,

the shrill chatter of the osprey circling overhead,

the dew glistening on the tips of the sedge grass,

sweet and lilting on the wind as it rears its head,

dashing from its roost, flushing through the aspens

that cluster like moths to a flame along the run of the creek,

sodden fingers like gnarled veins through the countryside,

slinking between sinewy streaks of reeds,

fields of beans and ears of corn,

and the steady rise of tufted knolls.

everywhere i look there’s more;

the solitude bewitches me,

brings me a strength

that millions of powerlines never could

i could walk this same blue line forever

and my cup would never run out