In Dreams

In dreams when I'm not here, I see
this green, this sky, this air.  I watch
my feet along this path, following
bunchberry down to the water, where
no things matter, save dragonflies
black and copper.

It seems we choose at every turn our own
way home.  When I sit idling at a light
on 53, a crow stalking along the shoulder
eyes me.  I hear not radios then, but ravens,
how they called on and off for days,
and I was there.

A hawk screams.  It's June.  Wildflowers
sprawl in a haze beyond the door, yellow
and blue.  In January, shadow behind me,
I count tracks in snow — deer, wolf, hare —
feed chickadees and the fire, and no desire
for more.  If one day I should go,

you will know where to find me.