Getting into the woods is easy—
Even in a park you leave the path

Only a moment—turned around—
Everything is almost right—

That beech was an oak—
The creek gone underground for a spell

Three notes sounding smooth rocks
Quartz breaking open in the hand—

In the thicket wait
Burrs, cuts and ticks

Up the stony hill
Trampled ferns and asthma

Down the gully broken logs
Or is it legs?
Well. Nothing for it

But to get on with it.
This time you're on your own.