I pass sweet scented bushes on my trek to hike trails,
I listen to songs. I see the cobalt blues and pinks
of early morning predawn skies. Then sunrise.
The familiar places, benches to rest, to drink,
to ponder, sometimes to listen
and to think about nature.
No talking. I write notes in my book,
a poem about this ravine I dare not cross,
about rocks for stepping or tripping.
About finding happiness outside my comfort zone,
as they say in the voice of cliché,
about what’s a name or identity. Am I what I did?
And the viper, that snake may not allow
my passage as he or she sunbathes
and the morning warms its cold blood.
Look both ways, but tread with care. Mind the gaps where vipers rest.