Scoutmaster's Report VIII

      Becoming Part of It
    The mountains, I become part of it.
         The herbs, the fir tree, I become part of it.
         The morning mists, the clouds, the gathering waters,
         I become part of it.
                    —Navajo Chant

I am out of breath, sprawled on my back on a wet stone
by the frigid bank of a nameless creek, swollen with snowmelt.

The roar drives my red blood, cold moss glows emerald,
translucent leaves of aspen offer shade, the green fuse is everywhere.

“Mr. Bank, are you OK?” a voice calls from the trail.
I’m listening to the creek” I reply, “I’ll catch up.”

Coming late into the busy camp, I drop my pack and rest again.
It reminds me how the forest is patient, out waits its passagers.

Tonight, under the blue black sky, we will eat our fill,
The boys will return to their patrols weary with the days march.

I will lay supine; the Milky Way will fill the moonless night,
the nocturnal world, the spirits that whisper in the ancient trees.

Hickory Run State Park 5/03