two blue bars painted on a tree trunk tell me the trail turns here, left or right not specified, so I go left into unbarred wild farther & farther — I know I’m wrong though what is wrong about here vs there? woods is woods, the mountain never asked to be surveyed, to be signed to be designated human-friendly space by the time I make it back to the two bars I know at least which way the trail does not go, I know the freedom of turning any which way, plus I know what’s growing inside the root ball of the upturned pine I’ve scaled the slope down to the water visited mossy rocks & rills seldom seen though as lovely as any along the trail I turn right this time, cross the stream climb a much steeper hill on a wider trail truer to call it an old logging road though no wheeled-beast could step cautiously across the stream as I did one foot on one stone, one on another wishing not to fall & also wishing yes — heedless, helpless, stunned — to slip, to fall, to be swept away