I hold fast to my walking
stick as I leave
the beaten path to follow
my own trail
Into only partially familiar woods.
There is a part of me that
Here, within the gloom of autumn
or later, the promise of spring
Tilt back my head
Shake my mane and
Sniff the air.
I crouch beside the creek flowing here, simple and without a care.
A glimpse of a whitetail yearling
Frozen in the tangled underbrush
The soft call the cardinal sings to his mate
The reflection of us all in the stream
In this late November dawn