My lichen hair 
and mossy feet,
Pressing down 
fallen trees
like piano keys.
The lodgepole pines
stick 
with 
sap.
Paper 
peeling 
off the birch
––in search
of charcoal words––
worlds within worlds.

No longer 
power line,
radio tower,
skyscraper.
Here I stack up.
Everything 
stacks up.

We camp in a bowl
of hot oats.
Navigating
the sky 
for clouds.
The lake 
green with willow––
my body ripples.

I cradle my reflection in two hands.
The morning dew in a Columbine
fractioned into multitudes.