BEING HENRY THOREAU FOR A DAY

There’s no road in, no road out
to Salter’s Pond, just overgrown
lumber trails on a perfectly blue
autumnal day.

In this sunflower world,
a scent of innocence is in the air.
I feel the heartbeat in a baby blue jay
that fluttered out of its nest.

Creatures large and small
hum a faint melody, upstaged by
the steady beat of lapping ripples
on the pond.

No one here, except for catfish
with hungry eyes and a lone deer
on a drinking spree. A praying mantis
stalks its prey on a branch of a birch tree.

Time must have stopped in this forest
where there is no clock.

My solitude is timeless.

Climbing over rocks and brambles
I stumble upon a secluded slab of stone,
splayed with three sunbathing beauties,
bare-breasted.