No Trail is a Place

The trail is in the pack, coiled tight

with paracord and the island map

in its plastic gallon bag. It jostles up

against the soda-can stove and gas,

is cushioned by the old wool socks,

grows warm against your back.

The trail scrubs your heels to blisters,

clenches in your calves with every

long heave up over a boulder and every single

drop, throws each breath you stop to catch.

The trail is the sun-soaked silent wild beyond the next naked ridge of rock

and the copse of lichen-coated pines

who drip their needles in a pungent rug,

the trail is the ginger step of a shadow fox

in the grey false dawn through camp,

and the loons on the lake that rock your

hammock with a lush goodnight lament.