A Poem by Richard Peabody.
After hiking nearly an hour,
a fork in the trail. Muddy lumber
track or a fallen birch blocks
your path.
Sunlight filters down
like dust mote days in a tiny apartment.
Voices from the lake. A motorboat.
All hidden from view.
You imagine bears in trees
gorging on apples, falling asleep
until awakened by your puny flashlight.
You imagine an Indian tribe
making their way back from a day
of bountiful fishing.
A crow protests above you.
Somewhere past the fallen birch
you choose the mud.
Away from the lake shore
and deeper into the dark Huron forest.
Nobody knows where you are.
Nobody knows where you’re going.
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