…at the retreat, hour after hour
with a rope that seems frayed
and a creased, old map
I think I see tracks in dried mud—
too wide for raccoon,
too small for bear.
Someone has been this way before—
there are old ashes in a hollow,
a cairn of stones at the crossroad.
Traveler, give me your hand,
keep my feet on the trail:
together we might just make it.