Walking between log cabins,
raindrops streak silver
from roof to garden bed
watering a nest of ferns.
Kayaking across clear waters,
the lake smooth as mirror-glass,
only broken by leaping fish
and the wake of the boat.
It is a matter of respect
to keep the paddle quiet
in its careful, gentle dips.
A lone loon sings his morning song;
A blue heron flutters in the mist.
All is framed by towering green,
conifers tall, dark, and strong,
They are awake with chatter:
Chipmunk, red squirrel, bluebird,
chipping sparrow, yellow warbler.
These dirt roads are perfect
for the hares, the toads,
the circle of white admirals
fanning new wings in the dust.
Puddles teeming with green
are adopted by the ducks
and geese with little ones to raise.

They say this place is special
for the people who built it lived here,
but why must value be derived
from a dead family name
instead of the multitude,
the natural history which dwells enduring,
in this space?