Counterpoint

 Counterpoint


I am hiking on an esker

orientation Northeast to Southwest 

quite high above

the kettles, combes and drumlins

of Plymouth, Massachusetts 


It is a cool and cloudy autumn day

orange and yellow oak leaves 

and light brown pine needles

forming a magic carpet

on the paths 

and between the tree trunks 


It is as if

I am walking on a melody

twisting and turning

rising and falling 

as the drizzle taps softly


Abruptly the music is discordant

at the boundary where

the land drops steeply 

toward the highway

where a fence has been cut


Here I find

an abandoned encampment 

in a clearing bounded 

by rotting tree trunks

and fabric and plastic 

and rain soaked pillows

near two faded tents

I cry for the people

who needed this shelter

for the children who played

on this sacred ground

with the sticks and the stones

and whatever they could find

while hoping for a meal


I move away

half blinded by tears


The music becomes gentle again


Now it is 20,000 years ago

a glacier cracks

the breaking ice thunders

startling everything for miles

I stand still for a 1000 years

watching the glacial till

being forced into the massive crevasse

sculpting the serpentine ridge

where I am strolling now

the bass beneath my melody


Even deeper down on the scale

inaudible but certainly present

are the ripples 

on the freshwater sea

in the interminable night

of the massive cave

far above which I am hiking

on land held up by water


I scramble down

a steep slope 

between the small pines

glance up at the high ground

take a deep breath

and walk back into the real world


Aubrey Lieberman

10/30/25



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