these things

when you moved here
into her house
you didn't know
that you could hear
the stream
that rushes when
it rains
down below, caught
between the sleeve
of sand and rock,
ever changing
its curve.
when you moved
here you didn't know
that you would hear
the trains blowing
their whistles
as they crossed
the trestle beyond
the woods, near
the dam where water
tumbles across
the slant of grey
concrete.
when you moved here
you didn't know that
you could see
the path of planes,
their red taillights
flashing against
the black sky
between the trees.
when you moved here
you didn't know
that you would get
older, and more
grateful for having
known her,
but now you know
these things.