The road is much traveled
and many speculations remain
about the roads not taken.
We have all come upon ourselves
confused, at the apex of options-
(a) or (to) be decisive upon catching the
flicker of a tall Indian paintbrush leaning
like an arrow as a sign to be read,
This Way-a choice is made for us.
We were exploring the Sierra ranges
and wound our way wordlessly
worshiping the execution of a task as
simple as footfalls when sinking into
shade, the unmistakable turbine of water
argued with the rocks somewhere nearby.
And as if made of honey,
we were drawn to the source.
Two humans length
off the path and we became
the main course. Each of us
quickly encased in a thick cloud
of blood-sucking bugs.
We persisted
and swatted and swung
at each other. For why we knew not.
We had seen running water before,
as rivers lead to other rivers before
spilling onto
the same old sandy shores.
Well, we nearly made it.
When the bough broke
the snap of our attention,
like a fishing line, hooked our cheek
on a fallen boulder of brown, a mound
facing its reflection as though right
at home.
The brown bear beat us there.
Painting by Albert Bierstadt, 'Passing storm over the Sierra's' c. 1870 in [Public domain].
