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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.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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