Calligraphy of a Stream

I  
A gray jays wing  
looks like old cedar wood grain.  
Grown from  
melted snow, and stolen sandwich bits.  
The jays move in flocks, take turns landing  
softly on my hat.  

The lower lake,  
frozen solid, but for the edges, coated in glistening snow.  
A small stream flows from one end—  
like black ink spilled on paper, then melting it, and running downslope.  

The jays drink, and watch       us  
in all our human awkwardness.  
Gracefully stealing tidbits for a free lunch  
Even though I heard: nothing in life is "free"  

The woods are soundless today, but for the shushing of trees shedding snow.  
Almost like the silence is asking me to listen, but then laughing:  
a jay swoops in to steal part of my sandwich again.  

II  
The cold     creeps    downhill, along the stream.  
Flat rocks    on a dark, gravelly bottom.  
People walking far, up from stuffed parking lot,    into this silence  
leaving behind their cars  
carrying their     conversations  
holding onto things.  
Then resting in the rare light, here at the edge of a lake.  

I wonder how easy it is  
to leave it all behind?  
To come clean    to the creek-burble?  
To cleanse       the mind?  

—Grey jays winging softly,  

					along tree'd edge of the lake  

III 
In mind, I gathered  
thoughts, and things, but wasn't always there  
for the beauty.  

Maybe if I drink snow melt, sleep outside, these things become me  
Or am I them?  

The transparency of the self grows clearer,  
in the calligraphy of a stream:  
Slowly flowing under frozen snowy bridges  
As we walk         together  
Back   
to our complicated lives.