At the End of the Path
At the End of the Path Walking east in the sharp air of fall, tracing the edge of harvested corn, along the smoothed way of tractor tread, a south wind makes the grasses move like waves, and the distant slope calls to me. Halfway to the field’s end, there to the left, a track branches off and down. It goes straight and purposefully into the low pasture, toward a stand of new saplings along the streambed, red and gold leaves catching the early sun, shimmering, beckoning to me. My feet decide, as I turn to follow the path, imagining deer and perhaps a fawn seeking shelter during the heat of day near the creek banks, under the trees. Or it might be a coyote, night’s ramble over and heading home. I feel excitement, walking carefully on the path of mysterious others, heading down through matted grass, wanting to follow, not knowing what I’ll find. Then the path turns suddenly tacking west toward a rugged oak tree, old, weathered, a few leaves showing signs of l...