The path leads nowhere, but we must follow,
Scrambling over boulders, cut, scuffed and bruised.
We wander through cross-hatch timbers, an old-
Growth forest; its crackling limbs gnarled, abused.
Farther on slopes a narrow, dry hollow,
Whose dusty patina shows little use.
Deer scamper to the water – fawns follow –
For relief. The sun’s beauty a sly ruse
To burn the undergrowth, then wallow
In its victory over life; no quick truce.
Wildlife scrounge for all that they can swallow.
But hunting for listless food proves no use.
We face a harvest moon made of tallow.
We soon learn nature’s rules are not our rules.