Christine Taylor

A Small Journey

A mountainside trail, muddy once, now frozen in lumps and ruts. The park rangers have burned the trees along the edge, the hairy roots of poison ivy vines withered and charred. We jump over a fallen pine tree blocking our path.

leaf-filled puddle
veiled in ice
an aged face

We follow the yellow markers on the trees, snake through the forest. You’ve gotten far ahead and turn to beckon me. I see your lips moving, but the chill wind is drumming up a headache, and I only hear the bass hum of your voice. You wait.