We may not have noticed in the day’s blur,
ten hours of hiking, looking up mostly, vistas
of blue. We may not have noticed
if it weren’t for this simple picture,
taken by a friend, who happened to stop,
and because some happenstance thing
like light struck him, snapped it.
Perhaps only ten square feet of earth,
where roots of spruce and pine overlap,
connecting rows of trees in a vast disorderly
network, worn from the slow workings
of weather and hiking boots. Needles, moss,
twigs sifted and shifted on top.

There must be some will of seed, having blown
this way, settled on this order, having frisked
for fertile soil in the sub-alpine air.

Though we all stopped to look at the first flowers
of the year, glacier lilies nodding
their drooping yellow heads,
we passed right by the interlocking sturdiness
of these trees. And because it was
ordinary, went unnoticed.

~ Ian LeTourneau

Ian LeTourneau is a transplanted Maritimer. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and journals across the country, as well as CBC’s Alberta Anthology. Gaspereau Press published a chapbook of his poems, Defining Range, in 2006. He lives in Athabasca with his wife, son and cat.

2 Responses to “Noticed”

  1. […] poems went up on blue skies, an online literary magazine, today: “Noticed” and “Pump Jacks.” These poems will appear in a special Writing the Land […]

  2. I know this. How often curious details missed, noticed only upon later inspection of the photograph. I also know the serenity of hiking out into alpine meadows, a carpet of reds, pinks, yellows and oranges. Lovely image.

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