In the Same Place. N. Thomas Johnson-Medland

pines. Small mountain falls

      burst forth in the melting of the

      snows to reveal a spring that

      would remain unnoticed on most

      days—hidden under leaf and

      limb, invisible to the eye and heart.

      Softly the earth pads

      on, rising until it peaks itself

      in a summit along the

      Alleghenies. How can you not

      walk the earth and feel

      the hidden innuendo of

      tribes and shamans making

      offerings to the crafter

      of this place. How can

      you fail to sense the

      fact of a holler and the

      truth of a

      primordial grove of mountain

      laurel it conceals from

      the faint. Rare moments are

      everywhere to be seen

      by the feeling of the heart

      in the ever-present space

      its feet tread upon.

      It is here

      that the flatter lands

      and ambling slopes

      turn upward toward

      the sky. A red shale

      mountain along the

      edges of the mountains;

      an inkling of rocks

      climbing out of the earth.

      A true foothill

      of and in its own right.

      It is here,

      right here

      where I stand

      upon this earth

      on my own two feet.

      Leaving my car

      just along the side of

      the road so my heart

      could sing.

      Here.

      I Hear The Wasp

      I hear the wasp

      at the front door;

      banging into

      the screen again,

      and again, and again.

      It is as if its wings