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 life.

Down the length of trunk, 

an ancient lightning bolt left

a wide smooth crease,

bark growth now folding in on it,

almost joining the fractured sides.

I did not imagine the path going here

to the foot of this tree matriarch.

My mind had imagined other more lyrical endings. 

But I turn toward the tree and see the path go

right inside a hole at ground level.

The ending is hidden in the dark interior.

Not far from a stream,

within easy reach of habitation,

a raccoon’s hideaway, I guess.

And though raccoon was not what I was seeking,

life has surprised me again.

Seeking one thing, I found another.