All the runoff from this side of the mountain
trickles through a culvert running
under the house, its concrete-block pillars,
water pipes, wires, spigots, switches,
a woodpile, a trashcan, various meters,
and out through the yard of yellow birch and mosses,
downslope to the creek, to the Watauga River,
the Holston, the Tennessee, the Mississippi,
taking the shortest course—not
as a bird flies, but as water, colored
by everything it runs through: strata
still being laid down, or already abandoned.
You hear it day and night,
you sleep to the sound of it:
the child’s toy buried under leaves,
a rusted grill, forest litter,
rock and sediment. Traces
of fire, and scrapers, arrow points.
If you follow the water, and the names,
you’ll find the sorrow.
—
Maura High lives in the piedmont of North Carolina. Most of her poetry is an exploration of this landscape and its complex past and present, the relation of land and water with the humans and other-than-humans that live here. Much of her understanding of this landscape comes from years of fieldwork with The Nature Conservancy. A native of Wales, Maura brings to her work the musicality and traditions of that country. Her work has been recognized with awards and publication. For details, see maurahigh.com.
