It radiates from the rotting logs

and tumbles down in the rusty rot,

noses out from under leaves

and lays buried in the muck of stagnant ponds

breathing through reeds

And lives out in the dry dusty field

among the tangled straw

and weedy stalks.

And it’s in the rattling

seed pods still clinging

to the stems

that I swear snap and twist

around each other, like hydra’s heads

the moment I turn away.

In the salamanders born

out of the dying embers of the campfire

as the world sleeps

that dash for the river,

quenching their skin.

It bursts into steam–

floating, water over water,

pursuing its place in the flow

until it’s chilled, reclaimed,

and sinks as sediment.

It’s the dancing, pulsing sky,

hiding behind the crystal matrix

that’s all I’ll ever see.