Well, two things are certain—
the sun will rise and the sun will set.
Most everything else is up for grabs.
It’s back on its way down now
As a mother moose and her twin calves
Step lightly, lightly
across the creek through the understory
And half-lit grasses,
Then disappear in a clutch of willow bushes.
If one, anyone,
Could walk through his own life as delicately, as sure,
As she did, all wreckage, all deadfall,
Would stay sun-lit, and ring like crystal among the trees.