Mother Redwood

from Out With lanterns

Today when I began sinking,
I did not hold breath and hope.
I took the dog to the trailhead
where signs warned of coyotes.
We walked in anyway, 
she leashless, me phone free,
because everyone needs 
to untether sometimes. 
Rustling in the woods proved
to be reptiles, birds, squirrels.
I saw a dead blue lizard,
heard hawks, but could not see them. 
We walked through a grove of redwoods
where the mother tree had fallen.
Her children stood tall around her, 
holding vigil. Nothing lasts.
She whispered: Let your roots loosen. 
The coyotes care nothing for you.