We walk a slow three miles along a forest trail pawed by game, rutted by melt & frequent rain. Thousands of wildflowers spring from leaf-fall — trout lily, trillium, bloodroot, dutchman’s breeches noble hepatica, blue cohosh, early meadow rue. Only near the end do I start to stumble, my eight- decade-old feet beginning to flag, the rest of me wanting to be stronger, to walk & witness longer but also to be sitting back in the car. My brother stumbles all the distance but pays age no mind. My grandchildren, white sneakers caked with mud, thumbs now & again on phones, all but prance.