Mother's Hands

As if to say… this is decay. These stones that I step and balance, I imagine a history. Here since the rock crumble, up from the overhang two hundred and eighty three years prior. I know they get refined every day, each like a twig gets whittled by the scout and her pocketknife. Some have moss. I try not to slip. I grab the fallen tree for stability.

Listen, just listen. The forrest still speaks. 

Later, I dodge the trail’s hands, fresh thorns. As if to say, this is rebirth. This is new. This is normal. Over the trail, three new barbs of thorny branch. Green, fresh, ready to catch and keep. Wasn’t long ago this trail was cut and combed. Back again these thorns. 

I have never been hiking with my mother. It’s so nice to return to the peace of nature’s constance.