Everyone sleeps but I am risen with the sun, and the grass wets with cold and freshness above my knees, softly then under the trees through the fence. Down now, to be seen is to be caught. Scramble up a cliffside scraping, stinging, and brambles hold me down.
The trees at the top are quiet again. And up the hill to the open rocks drying. Warming waiting for my curled body. Berries nestled deep in green leaves, field enclosed by trees. Hidden, hiding me. Here I see the lake, it begins to wake. I watch and am watched by none but the birds.
2025 Jacqueline Jackson
This article appears in Spring Guide 2025.
