Three days in the woods

without people, I find myself

wanting so badly to tell someone

about the hummingbird

who comes every morning

to suck the orange flowers,

about the iridescence of chain pickerel,

how they look like sunlight

on the Paupack below the falls,

how a luna moth landed

on the pages of my book

like a prayer separated

from its anguish,

about the campfire,

the way flames appear liquid

at their hottest and in the darkest

hour of the night

beyond the synastry of bats

there are more stars

than Greek philosophers

had names for, more

than echoes

of gunfire,

more than all the flax seeds

in the world.