The forest has grown in now, this time
in spring the green darkens and I am
inside a giant’s beard hacking
my way through
fronds and fallen limbs, unsure
where I’m going or why, just
that I need to be here looking
in the dark, my feet must be
a part of it.

The earth moves through time
and space not caring where
or why, just knowing it
must.

And while here
I am propelled along
its back largely unnoticed,
though I know there is
someone watching in the
forest I can hear
in the small sounds that
sometimes peep and
cry out to one another —

With birdsong constellations
and perfume dripping from
trees, the frothy fronds
and withered hands,
the roots become knuckles,
mottled veins lead the way —

The hanging-on snail’s eyes
globes spinning on stalks,
feeling its way in inches
and yards, sometimes
stepped on, snapped
back into shape —

In the constant forward
motion we press on,
sometimes falling,
sometimes dropping,
stopping, going the
wrong way — but as
the prism spins it
slows and lands on
a side you can
see through.

I arrive at the lookout,
100 years ago they
mined coal here, and it
reads:

FORD SLOPE

1740 FT INCLINE TO 200 FT
BELOW SEA LEVEL
ELECTRIC LOCOMOTIVES
WORKED UNDERGROUND

The sign says stay out
but I get as close as I can
to see in.

I take no pictures,

I have lost track
of all time
and myself.

There is nothing to see
from the lookout
but I am still glad
I came.

Categories: poetry

Tags: coal mining history, Cougar Mountain, hiking, introspection, Issaquah Alps, Jim Whittaker Wilderness Trail, nature poetry, on Internet writing, on writing, pacific northwest, Pacific Northwest hiking, poem, poetry, snails