two blue bars painted on a tree trunk
tell me the trail turns here, left or right
not specified, so I go left into unbarred wild
farther & farther — I know I’m wrong
though what is wrong about here vs there?
woods is woods, the mountain
never asked to be surveyed, to be signed
to be designated human-friendly space
by the time I make it back to the two bars
I know at least which way the trail
does not go, I know the freedom of turning
any which way, plus I know what’s growing
inside the root ball of the upturned pine
I’ve scaled the slope down to the water
visited mossy rocks & rills seldom seen
though as lovely as any along the trail
I turn right this time, cross the stream
climb a much steeper hill on a wider trail
truer to call it an old logging road
though no wheeled-beast could step
cautiously across the stream as I did
one foot on one stone, one on another
wishing not to fall & also wishing
yes — heedless, helpless, stunned —
to slip, to fall, to be swept away
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