Can a walk be a poem?

On Crystal Hill, we searched

for sparking stones,

we listened to the peepers symphony,

down in the steaming swamps,

we wondered at the ice,

clinging to the top of the swamp.

We saw the first frost of green,

on the tops of the trees,

we saw the pale shy sun,

hiding up in the trees,

we heard the cherubs sing,

and the sparrows cry out in alarm,

we heard the mournful cries,

of the crows scavenging through the woods.

We followed the path,

deep into the woods,

saw the scat of the bears and coyotes,

heard creatures scampering off,

running on the crackling dead leaves,

the survivors of the long winter,

we heard the chimes of the streams,

running beneath our feet,

on our first walk on the path

of the new Spring.

Can walk be a poem,

or a meditation?,

look at us,

we are like flutes,

singing in the Angel Chorale,

shouting Yes, Yes, Yes.