the hills above Boulder where I think
I can shortcut through grass
instead of following the trail around
going is rough, my pockets fill with seed
July mid-afternoon suns my back
I think of snakes, there could be snakes I think
& a rattler rises taller than the grass
body an S, head a wedge pointed at my chest
I tiptoe backward thinking don’t run, the snake is
six feet away & wants nothing to do with me
what if another snake coils behind me
snake eyes watch as I stutter-step
toward shorter grass, turn away, stumble
through scree back to the trail
let snakes own the tall grass
I hike alone because I am alone
because finding someone to hike with
is beyond me, besides, alone means
being on the hike, not conversing
about something else, not relating past
but sensing present — this outcrop, this
lichen — in Wyoming when Barbara & I see
the moose standing staring at us from the bog
ten feet off the trail, Barbara’s dog Lucy
still as she’s ever been, we stop
& watch silently until one of us murmurs
what should we do? the other says walk on
slowly, the moose watches, the dog follows
moose, head lowered, resumes chewing
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