Who's Coming Down The Trail
I’m moving down a forest trail,
wooden canyon on my right side,
above, on thermals, raptors glide,
always inspires without fail.
I hear a rustle before me,
and wonder just who that could be?
Perhaps it is an Indian,
face painted, war club on his back,
looking down at the dirt track,
the path taken by his foemen,
they took his woman in a raid,
his bow will flash, and they will pay…
Maybe it’s a militiaman,
on the lookout for that same brave,
the British stirred them to a rage,
bribed them to devastate the land,
dirty tricorn and old musket,
but he’s rarely had to use it…
Or could it be a long-hunter,
clad in leather, fringe, and fur hat,
rifle and necessary bag,
seeing it the duff is disturbed,
tracking an elk across the hills,
hoping tonight he’ll eat his fill…
Perhaps it is a pioneer,
just passing through on his way west,
his only clothes are on his chest,
his destination isn’t near,
looking for land that he can farm,
clear it with just strength of arm…
Maybe it is a lumberjack,
timber-cruising for trees to fell,
which ones to cut, his eyes can tell,
some of them broader than his back,
snaps is suspenders on his plaid,
they’ll have work for all of the labs…
Or a uniformed park ranger,
tired from long miles on his feet,
these winding trails his daily beat,
always looking out for danger,
knowing poachers frequent this place,
they’ll pay the price for unfair play…
It could be a tourist family,
father wrangling eager kids,
who dash about (like he once did!),
so many things they want to see,
his wife carries the little one
who snoozes in the mid-day sun…
Though it could be some teenager,
even now she’s glued to her phone,
why did she even leave her home?
Takes selfies to show off later,
Is she awed by the canyon’s drop?
or is it just another prop…
But it is none on these things, no,
it is an ambling black bear,
we’ve caught each other unaware,
neither seems to know where to go,
He’s as surprised by this as me,
was he also caught up in daydream?
Copyright ©
David Welch
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