Pass No Judgement

Poison oak's got every right to be there.

It has every right 
to be there,
that blotch 
of poison oak,
right under 
my right eye.

Every right,
just as much 
as the brown sunspot,
the puffy bag from Mom,
the scar from George's watch
colliding with my cheek
when racing that day
in Johnny D's pool.

The poison oak's 
just as likely to be there
as not be there 
under my eye,
as last week I ducked and dodged
every oily, three-leafed bush
along the McCloud 
and Upper Sacramento rivers,
I just as likely missed them
as one, unknowingly,
brushed my hand or face.

McCould River, Ash Camp to Ah-Di-Na via Pacific Crest Trail, Mt. Shasta, CA.

The poison oak's
got every right
to be there, that is
along the banks
of those rivers,
every right 
as much as I do,
more, actually,
given that's its home
versus me, an interloper.

It sees more sunrises
and fish rising 
on those rivers
than I every will,
it's at ease with rattlesnakes 
coiling up under it
and bears and mountain lions
pushing through 
its leaves and branches
to enter the streams,
all of which unnerve me.

It sits there, passively,
until someone
like me, actively,
interupts its coexistence
with all around it, 
recoils at its presence,
swears at its menace,
and prays for avoidance.

But that's not fair,
poison oak has every right
to be there despite
it's potential wrath,
so I'll pass no judgement,
and be genuinely 
comfortable with that fact
and understanding 
and respectful of it.