ancient when my ancestors
tilled fallow ground
an ocean of time and space eastward
speaks to me in voices
familiar and disparate.
I pause, as much a moment of respite
as reflection, to consider.
I have moved away from the trail
to balance precipitously
over the vast expanse of valley
that dips between my resting place
and the ridge of horizon to my west,
as far and deep both north and south
as the eyes of the heart and mind can see.
From my granite plateau I notice
spindly wisps of smoke from the lodgings
that dot the valley and shelter others
of my kind.
I find the wire stitched pad
of processed tree bark
opened on the flat of my hiking sack,
the lead cored twig in my hand
urged on by voices I cannot discern
like mariners of old set sail
my restless urgings need prevail
I argue but to no avail
the sun and moon my only friends
as on this endless trail extends
my meditative soul contends
I know not where the pitfalls lie
nor reasons boasting where or why,
nor reasoned answers which to ply
is this the place where I will die?
The pad and pencil return
to the safe confines of my back pack,
and as daylight fades and stars begin
to twinkle both above and below me
I ponder the journey
and the night
night on this ledge
at the edge
of forever.
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