The Bitter End of the Road

The Bitter End of the Road Travelers coalesce as if from as dense fog about the grounds of the retreat. The lodge shimmers silver-gray amongst the changing autumn woods. The gravel way diminishes in rearview mirrors with the pinging sound of pebbles against the metal horses of the day. Civilization, ever trampling, encroaches upon what ages ago had been a pristine forest, now swarms to the Lodge’s gates: ants to the picnic late comers in search of the scraps, the leavings, of much abused nature. Slamming car doors, buzzing cell phones, endless chatter accosts the forest’s skirt. Beaten paths awaited those stalwart enough to venture in, rushing ever forward and upward through the crunch of fallen leaves, the snap of branch, the distant warble of unseen birds. Water, when near, adds its own rush, and babble. But, the smaller critters seem to have vanished tracks and spoor, trampled whether in reverence or disregard; it matters not. In our ever onward rush to enjoy, the sounds of cricket, cicada, the squirrels chitter, the owls call; we by our mere presence destroy. First Published by Poetry Quaterly