Whole body politiks and patriarchies have been built upon
Original sin and the culpability of Eve
But there is no original sin, only original quality
Of all that was here before the universe
And the original sadness that originates in mortality
But which is the immortal returning

There is a connection
Between Fort Collins and New Orleans
Molecules of water
Tumbling over each other
In Fossil Creek as it flows past my home
Are in existence having been created
From the snow melts above
And in the flow returning to the Source
By way of the Poudre, the Platte, the Missouri, the Mississippi
On their way back to the Way
To the Gulf of Mexico and mother ocean
To begin again

A dove sits on her eggs in the nest under the pergola
She and her mate roost in the Japanese tree lilac, hooting all day like amateur owls
Baby robins in another nest under the eve outside the South door
Extend their beaks In Praise waiting for the early worm, still alive, surviving their 75% mortality rate

Peonies and poppies and roses too numerous and heavy for their limbs
The voluminousness and red red of the rose bushes greet everyone eagerly as they enter the street
Magpies rear their young in the Autumn Purple Ash,  screeching and swooping with delight
The chirps and tweets and aromatherapy are symphonic and constant

The lilac tree blooms fragrantly and looks down on her cousin bushes who do not
The dogs chase the rabbits eternally in vain
Will there be plums again this year? Apples? Raspberries? Strawberries? Pumpkins or watermelon? Will the pear tree ever bear pears? Will the tomatoes survive this year? Will we throw the Horseshoes again?

Will a great-horned owl perch on our roof tonight?

Across the street the herons see their reflection on Ogden Pond and watch over the newly adolescent goslings and I wonder if they too wonder where the ducklings are?
Somewhere in the land of the free and the brave someone will die today for their beliefs or their hue
But not here in the Fossil Creek Valley at the base of Pleasant Hill Lane
Hear the abundance tells us a glorious lie

Here when we drink from the stream, we remember the spring