57.4230° NORTH, IN AUTUMN
Ancient trails make a web across these lands
and by them we walk into the future.
Feet find a rhythm that has always been here
we sink into pristine mud but walk lightly.
Moving across damp mountains of dew-bright moss
how easy it would be to get lost in this this country
of rivers, meandering rivers, sprinting rivers
forests, midnight forests, forests impassable, mist between trees
swamps, moose swamps, golden willow swamps
moose trails, bear trails, horse trails,
But the sun
draws a ray like a beckoning arm through the pungent pines
catches the beads of wet in the still shadow
and sets them on fire, white fire.
Sparks leak slowly from our campfire
and become stars above our heads
become sparkles in our eyes.
In the silver blue night
Ancient ways lead to the future.
- Cara Gordon