Sometimes he is my eyes

in mist
in mountains
with finnegan
a year now

he’s growing heavier
and stronger and
so am i,
carrying him
most of the time
on the steep
rocky trails
legacy of miners
leading into
backyard
wilderness

this morning
though sleepy-eyed
finnegan’s sight is keen
language forming
in sharpening brain
begins to shape thought
and observation into
words

boats in the harbor
driving over the bridge
birds in the cottonwoods
beside cascading creek
“boww”
“biirrrr”

he points
i return with words
to the trees above
switch-back in
blasted rock
“trees” I say
waving my hand
across the swath of green
and though he
doesn’t yet have the
words, his smile
speaks volumes

his finger, like a wand
pointing out new objects
illuminated by awareness
i give him new words
“ferns”
“columbine”
“sambuccus”
he points to a small tree
clinging to rock
and I hesitate,
what is that?
a maple? here?
i guess,
“maple”
i tell him
realizing i would
never have noticed
this botanical anomaly
without him

sometimes i am his legs
sometimes he is my eyes

at ebner falls
we turn back down
the valley,
to return to the
bottom of the
mist which holds
this valley in its
cloudy palm

he points to the ground
and I set him down
to walk
to run
to show to me
he is so much more
than one