Trails - Part II

II.

Frosted  promises

hint at what lies ahead

the clear sky warming towards

magenta as the sun dips

behind the ridge on the far side

of the sleepy, deep valley.

Beneath  the first twinkle of starlight

I stretch my bed between

two low hanging oaken cloak hooks

high enough above the tiny clearing

to look down on any midnight passers by

but low enough that should nature call

in the inky darkness, and I forget

where I am, the fall won’t do permanent damage.

I drift into the sky-borne oceans

of Captain Hook, Mr. Smee, and the Jolly Roger

as they set sail

second star to the right

and straight on to morning,

as the soothing song of the whippoorwill

night owl and mountain cricket

blend in harmonious symphony

I catch a different sound in the ghostly wind,

as the distant drums of Chippewa, Cherokee, and Choctaw

fill my restless dreams.

I wonder if the path before me

steals through stealthy lanes

silently trod by feather clad Iroquois

in midday hunting raids

or Algonquin in search

of white man’s scalp.

Would my careful steps

further bury the ancient remains of

a shattered flint arrowhead

or the elk horn handle

of an knife that once skinned

hare, deer or black bear.

Did the small clearing

beneath my canvas loft

once breath with the regal discourse

of tribal elders as they sat around a fire

turning meat on a spit

and passing the still smoldering pipe.

Are the tell-tale signs I think I see

in the broken twigs and pressed moss

signs of night visitors

or simply the improvisations

of an overly active imagination?

My bag repacked,

breakfast of deer jerked some season passed

boiled chicory root for drink

and my canteen refilled

from a nearby weeping rock formation

the time has come to leave this place

of brief but solemn respite

and continue the endless journey

to that place

I seek

but
do
not
know.