It was an old trail
I’d often travelled as a child
on foot, on sled, on bike, on horse.

It passed the rope swing
out over the steep drop off
then up the hill
through the field
where the abandoned house was.

I remember the left hand turn
through the pine grove
where the ground was soft
with brown pine needles.

It was quiet in there
and every sound
and every motion
seemed amplified.

You could stand there
forever
and listen
to the chickadee
in a distant tree
to the chipmunk
and squirrel
running along the branches,
and especially
to the unknown.

Beyond the grove,
the path forked;
uphill to the right
passing behind the neighbor’s barn
and downhill to the left
towards the old scout camp.

Straight ahead was the stream,
too small to fish
but you might see some minnows there,
various water bugs,
or if you sat
quietly,
long enough,
something mysterious.

I would sit there
on those long summer days
waiting for a blessing
I had already received.