Two streams flow opposite,
between them,
a mile long moraine,
sliding pebbles and gravel.
The glacier found no gold,
just a load of pan.
Years ago dozers came through,
and hauled away the big pines that blew down.
Blueberries, and some young black spruce, are holding on.
I struggled up and over,
to see if I could remember,
which stream flowed east and which flowed west.
Sun down, sky my map, clouds forming,
a symmetrical landscape,
Only young conifers nearby.
They don't know the way.
A white-throated sparrow sings.
Which side did I come up?
A few flies buzz my ear,
I'm the biggest warm thing for miles.
Perhaps there's a moose, or bear,
A river got lost here beneath a mile of ice.
Now I am where it meandered,
under a star-less sky.
I pile up ferns to pass the night.
a soft green pillow, rich in spore to dream.
I pause that I might hear
a rifle shot,
from other lost men.
