Trails

Trails

By David Roth

© 5^th November, 2010

One step

two

three and more

each melding into the next.

Ancient canvas backpack

buckled to the rigid aluminum frame.

Compass on my wrist

Swiss knife on my leg

canteen clipped to the old

webbed belt

with the pressure clamp buckle

broad brimmed hat

to keep the sun from my eyes

and a six-foot length of

weeping green poplar

for a walking stick

as uncertain as its carrier.

Deer, perhaps,

or maybe elk or bear

but probably raccoon or chipmunk

blaze a path through virgin pine

and not quite ripe elderberry

laid out on a blanket of dried leaves

mouse droppings

and velvet green moss.

Boots laced above my ankle

eyes darting, nostrils flared

and wildly imaginative ears

search the forest around me

wondering if hunter or prey.

Stepping toe to heel

careful to shield

the sound of my passage

masking the unknown with

anxious awareness

of the invisible world

hidden in the brush.

Things that growl.

Things that creep.

Things that slither.

Tip-toeing headlong

into a foreign universe

where one poorly placed step

could land a thousand feet below

I am without hope or understanding

but that the trails

wherever they may lead

 beckon.

Bearing the accumulated detritus

 of my life

in a canvas bag on my back

I

must

follow.

I

have

no

choice.