There is a place so remote
where beaver still dam the streams,
building forts of tree limbs,
slowing the mountain runoff down,
making ponds where speckled trout wait in the afternoon shadows.
I walk those ponds in old running shoes
that have seen better days.
Fish lie under the logs listening.
The afternoon bends slowly into evening
and the first stars rise
over the mountains.
Overhead Orion hunts all night
following his dogs.
I know where this place is.
Put aside your day of old clothes.
I will take you there.