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by Tom Stock
Along side dry woodland pathways, mosses, by their abundance
Sometimes show favor for the microclimate
By flowing down like waterfalls.
Dammed by fallen logs, bubbling over
In mounds upon mounds,
Cascaking in dark and light greens.
They look like they are overcrowding each other
With lichens that have found space between them
Looking helplessly caught in the rapids of photosynthesis.
Early spring, that's the time to moss hunt in a dry woodland.
Plenty of light for growth,
Turgid from vernal showers,
Healthy carpets they are.
They yield quickly to the moss hunter
While refusing to leave their soil behind.
The empty spot will soon fill,
Flowing down the bank,
Stopping short at trail's edge.
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