We sweat through our backpacks,
Tripping over unstable river stones
Searching for the bright plastic ribbons that flutter
guiding us up
this fucking mountain.
Scrambling up steep cliff,
nails deep in dirt.
Three hours in, I stop to adjust my pack and when I am done, I cannot see the others.
I am a child lost in a supermarket
Around me, deep green and the smell of pine needles.
There are patches of snow.
What will I do when night comes?
Thirty seconds. Only a few moments.
I’m ashamed by my weaknesses in the face of this wilderness.
We reach the campground and the lake is frozen.
In my boots, my toes are numb.
In the cabin there are stores of dry wood.
Steam rises from my socks above the stove and I
can’t shake the memory of a story I once read,
A boy and his father walking in the snow
A yellow moon and an owl.
We don’t see any bears
but out on the ice is a broken log
— its bear shaped if you squint.
I dream of walking alone in dark widening circles