Meeting an Old Friend on the Wissahickon

The winter having doffed its chill
And cast away its fogs, we walked
Down secret pathways (for so still
They seemed), through trees and mud that balked
Our passage like a spider's glue.
We walked past bridges broken by
The flood last spring, past rocks that grew
To half a house but did not try
To reach full height (or so we said
For theory, lacking history
Or art to explain). Past new-laid
Horse-tracks, up hills where tree by tree
We pulled ourselves, then scrambling down
We jumped from rock to rock to try
The stream for path; but, overgrown,
It blocked us. Leaving it,
We went where wiser walkers stayed.
Some vague and yet familiar fit
Of recognition came and played
A memory game. I let it sink
Beneath my mind. Then passing round
A well-known bend, we reached the brink
Of Devil's pool. …The silent sound
Of water deep enough to dive
From that log bridge that swung above
The water, fifteen feet, seemed live
With no surprise that slept, to move
Upon our coming; yet some voice
Now called behind me that I should
Recall. I, baffled, had no choice,
Returned his greeting, though I would
As well have watched the water flow
In silence. Yet I'd known him once,
Though you had not, and known his slow
Profundities; and for the nonce,
Once recognized, we'd need no word
For comradeship once held. Nor did
We speak of present, how absurd
This meeting on this bridge so hid
From city noise. No questions asked:
The understanding was complete.
Mundane small talk might well have masked
The moment's strength and might defeat
The purpose that had brought us here.
The moment broke, and making last
Goodbyes, we traced our steps to near
And homely things. Quite what had passed
We could not say, but walked the way
We came, not speaking; and so home,
To eat, and in the waning day,
Reflect on miracles that come.

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