Just one step along the way
and I pause to look around
at leaf covered stoney ground
where newts sleep and chipmunks play.
Ordinary path...ordinary day.

As so many times before
I travel on the path alone
as if, I think, I must atone
for some defect within my core
the weight of which won't let me soar.

The sun just now turns toward the west
and midday breeze begins to blow
bringing just a hint of snow
within a day or two at best.
I inhale the day deep in my chest.

All hardwoods are standing bare
accented by a few pine trees
which stretch toward sunshine with ease,
and look! a fox trots over there
carrying for lunch, a hare.

Below, a clear middling steam flows
riffles reflecting in the sun
over rocks gray, green and dun
awaiting spring when volume grows.
In the west a coming storm front shows.

Before the front a few crows fly;
they fly in silence for a change
a quiet flight which I find strange
as if someone's about to die.
I smile, although the smile is wry.

Across the stream, there through the oaks
recline round bales of fescue hay.
They look like they might roll away
with bare nudges or gentle pokes
or hungry cows' insistent strokes.

A sharp report past the far hill
tells of a hunt gone well today
or should the shot have gone astray
the quarry may be roaming still
through woods divided by a rill.

I realize I am also a prey
of that hunter we all fear
making me glance to my rear
as if I might see him, dark and fey
but he's not within my sight today.

All this between a step and pace
and the steps have been so many
since those far days when I was skinny.
I sigh, old staff in my embrace
then take one more stride in this slow race.