In honor of National Poetry Month, here’s one by Quinn Bailey from the 2020 issue of Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry.
by Quinn Bailey
Walking done right
Is mostly listening
With steps in between,
Stopping to be still long enough
That it feels like
Treason to start again.
Who am I to break this silence?
That is the job of the wren,
Or the thrush,
Or the creaking firs.
I am just a visitor here;
Each crunching step confirms
My citizenship to a different world
Of quickness and improvement.
But out here it is still understood
You cannot improve fresh snow,
Or the glittering throat of the hummingbird,
Or these maple seeds, like angels of spring,
Falling slowly to the ground.
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