psalm

As the river fog floods the golden rod
     I will take it with me

The catbird, grey against grey, always at my back
     I will take it with me

The nasal grunts of beavers filter through the arrowroot leaves
     I will take it with me

The starlight sun bursts between the branches of the swamp maples
     I will take it with me

The crickets' song crowds the morning mists
     I will take it with me