Cold stars blaze within the predawn sky
as I exit from my faded ride
and watch my clouded breath drift by
here at a far forlorn roadside.
I try to ignore aching knees.

Two score of years since I was here,
back then a clear cut set in pines.
Gone, the forest I'd held dear,
hardwoods, some draped with muscadines.
Their perfume tinted autumn's breeze.

Now tall pines guard the logging road.
At least that old road looks the same
as before the years built up their load
and the final realization came
that age is not some distant tease.

I grab my homemade cedar staff,
a third leg I thought I'd never need,
then set out limping down the faded path
at a shuffling gait devoid of speed.
The full moon shines above the trees.

The lay of the land remains unchanged
though the hills are worse than I remember.
At least topography's not rearranged
since that long ago December
when I strode this path with youthful ease.

I stop when I top the first hillside.
Legs demand I greet the coming dawn
here, where the streams and hills abide
while fleeting men and life pass on
and the march of time declines to freeze.