The Pilgrimage

I still make the drive to Hawk Mountain for fall migration, 
though not as faithfully as before.
I have settled on a shorter ride to Alpha, 
where thousands of snow geese 
wintering on a nearby reservoir 
glean nubby cornfields. Or closer still, 
Horseshoe Bend in spring, 
hoping to spot a Louisiana waterthrush hopping the creek. 

Though I am just as happy walking the towpath 
across the river any season, birds or not. 
Or the rail trail on my side, where the Del-Bel train line 
sank canal-boat business delivering coal 
from country mines to city furnaces 
and fireplaces over a century ago. 
A rusty section of track still stands on footings 
along the path between the water and new townhouses.

I may never drive through a living tunnel in a redwood tree 
or hunt truffles in the Black Forest, 
but I know red trillium climbing the bank overlooking the river 
at the end of my street, 
and one year a morel popped up in my garden, a single morel, 
a spongy monolith, a delectable temple.