Bright Angel Trail

My knee was a cracked hinge, each step a bargain struck with pain. The canyon walls pressed in, heat still rising from the stone long after sun left it behind. Halfway to the distant rim, I flopped down on the trailside bench— the slats grabbed hold of my full weight as if they meant to keep me. And then I was above it all— a silver thread, the fragile link between breath and beyond. The air was full of silence. I saw how easy it would be to just…let go. But I didn’t. I woke like a question and kept climbing. That’s when I saw him— a black shape on a branch, watching me with one white wing like a secret not yet spoken. He followed at a distance, hopping from shadow to shadow, his pale-marked wing flashing like a faint lantern just ahead of my pain. Every time I faltered, he circled back— a silent reminder that upward was still possible. Step by breaking step, he kept the vigil— lifting off when I stumbled, landing just far enough ahead to pull my spirit after him. No moon marked the trail, but the leaves wore a ghost-edge of nearly invisible light, and his white-barred wing gleamed like a promise I hadn’t yet earned. At last, the rim broke open— a dark horizon against impossibly myriad stars, edged in silver breath. And the raven, faithful as my own shadow, rose into the thinning night and did not return.