Lake Red Rock in the winter,
what look like waves frozen on the shore,
the bare trees look like the old hands of the earth
trying to scratch scars in the heavens.
It’s quiet here, even the water is silent,
not even the whisperings of the dead
can be picked up amongst these trees.
The path cuts through them in a straight line,
but the sun set half an hour ago
and I can’t make out where the path leads.
A good metaphor for life, I think to myself,
noticing I’ve begun tiptoeing for some reason,
maybe the shock of my footfalls will wake
whatever monsters my overactive mind
has created beneath the twisted trunks
of trees that have been dead for years.
There is nothing here for me to fear,
just silence and all its consequences.