My story is on the trail,
I just don’t know the story yet.
The trail doesn’t know it yet,
but it is there,
The story waits to be told.
Will it be beauty,
Even if I never moved,
This very section of trail I stand on will hold the story.
The story of heat,
My body slowly sinking to the ground in weakness.
The wind drying my parched skin,
Tearing my clothes.
The various animals coming to investigate,
My eyelashes fluttering open and meeting the gaze of a pica or elk.
The slow decomposition of body,
My soul escaping on the wind.
The bones stark against the bare trail,
Torn apart by coyotes.
Even that would be a story.
The story of life,
The trail awaits the tale.
By Roxy Whalley ~ written in 2009, completed in 2012
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