When raindrops strike the pond they ripple round,
Pi-scriptured circles perfect as his math;
he lingers long on this fernlush high path,
observing, calculating.The one sound,
the silken one of water.How astute,
this forest where Pi matters just as in
his lessons, certain theorems.Red leaves’ spin.
The math of tree rings, rain, a young lark’s flute
as fluent as his own.Should he persist
when all he does is mirror nature’s laws?

He pauses, counting one crow’s loud black caws
addressing him through sudden, fleeting mist.

And that’s the core of it; he’s not here to
make history, discover the unknown,
but rather to connect until he’s gone.

Mere notice makes the ancient live, brand new.