Stream and Tree

The stream’s promise
of an easy bed could lull
a troubled man to sleep.
No dismay would alarm
the pastures nearby,
horses would still graze,
jays screech from a dying elm,
grasshoppers snap into
the depth of afternoon,
bluebottle flies attend
a dead rabbit.
But the young oak I lean against
grips earth firmly, reaches
toward the sun, grows into its future.
It makes my thoughts root deep
as I nod to the horses,
whistle at the jays,
drink from the stream and try
to think enough green signs
so I can go it alone.