On the way home from Rogue River

Fleeting

The moss is there, I believe,
on the north side of the Douglas fir,
I assume. I have to trust
it is there, believe it because,
traveling from the south,
I cannot see for sure
what is ahead. 

The old growth forest
whisks by like a Bev Doolittle painting--
those rows and rows of straight bare birch
with camouflaged appaloosa ponies.
Out of the corner of my eye
I catch brief possibilities
of wolves hidden in the woods,
or deer, or even nymphs and sprites
in the spaces between. 

A 4:00 p.m. sunlight
flicks like a strobe
and I am disoriented--
something about the past
being done, karmic overload
resolved, the Belladonna poison
of old loves expunged.

So what are these tears?
Muddy-brown regret for what is gone?
The past is grip-less,
yet the sage moss ahead,
invisible just seconds before,
is now at my back,
also behind me,
before I ever had a chance to touch it.