Creek Trail

I started to climb,
counting my steps
stepping over
fallen Douglas fir branches
pale striped as the birches
of my own eastern slopes.

A hundred, five hundred steps,
up and down a trail no wider than
the span of two hands,
the ground bouncing
as the countless lives
beneath my feet
push back against
my transient weight.

Eight hundred, a thousand,
Two thousand steps
As the wind breathes
through lungs of green,
as the flow of the stream below
offers its constant harmony.

And then I stop,
not really weary,
but not needing to trade
one glimpse from the top,
still far from sight
for an uncertain
return in the dark.

And though I do not wish to pretend
that the years I carry
equal that much more wisdom
there is one question
I’ve learned to ask.

How far must we go
before we know
we have to turn back
to return with the light?

What is breath
but the gift of the wind?

What is song
but the shaping of breath

And what do
the old trees do
with the wind?