Deciding to take a short cut, I come to a rim
where the floor of pine needles abruptly ends,
then two hundred yards of steep embankment.
I take a few steps down the slope,
but instead of leaving footprints,
pale yellow pumice roils around my feet.
Tennis shoes sink.
Beginning to slide, I run to gain momentum—
grab hold of a large fir like a man being swept away
by the tide.
I could try crawling up the bank, but the angle is too severe.
I could yell for help, but there is no one for miles.
I could sled down on the seat of my pants,
propelled so fast, skidding across rocks
the size of giant fists, breaking legs easily
as snapping sticks.
The only way out is to dash from one fir to the next.
The targets will be difficult to hit.
If I am too slow or fast, I’ll shoot past—
a rocket missing the moon. It’s best to aim high
and make corrections as I go, concentrate
being the arrow.
I am a pinball careening
from one pillar to the next.
Eventually, I rest
behind the last fir.
Shoving off, I am a downhill racer
blasting down the spillway,
a playground slide.
I surge past the finish line.
Breathing deep, I slap my jeans clean.
Dust rises like fear leaving me.
Making my way to the lake,
I soak my feet and contemplate
the infallible laws of the forest.
