Mt. LeConte, a year later

melancholy

for decades, today would have been

when we shepherded 42 of us up Mt. LeConte,

when we lived the effort to work ourselves up

one of the faces of the mountain,

to be at the top, as a group,

ready to share meals, and camaraderie,

and sunset, and sunrise,

then to work ourselves back down the mountain

where we world celebrate friendship,

and accomplishment,

and whatever revelations the mountain allowed,

with a meal my mother provided, and still champions:

chicken salad, angel biscuits, plenty of butter,

summer transparency applesauce,

marinated carrots, grits casserole, and cakes,

I am deep down sad that what was no longer is. . .

at this very moment when melancholy starts to wrap me in her arms,

the great blue heron descends before me

with an explosion of outthrust wings

followed by alert stillness as it makes sure it’s safe,

it stands stoic and expectant,

on the hemlock log crossing the creek

a log felled by the blight of the introduced adelgid,

the heron lets me pass the test of being probably benign,

I move very little but I do move a bit

to show I’m alive and not a concern,

then it flies to the creek, drinks several times,

and starts hunting for supper,

I am sad for what I have lost,

I am joyous for what might still be possible to gain,

I follow the heron up the creek, 

though my presence is annoying enough

that it can’t settle into the hunt,

I return to the cabin and cook my share of supper,

early in the meal, 

my wife spots a bear crossing the creek toward the cabin,

I follow him, too, into the woods,

inside a sadness swells,

outside I feel the call to buck up and appreciate the moments

that still come while we still breathe.

by Henry H. Walker

August 1, ‘20