Awhile tonight I’ve tried
to keep in the rut, not trip.
Sometimes cedar branches
flip underfoot, swiping my shins.
A stream’s unburdening itself. Overhead
a split tree’s squealing in the wind.
By these boundaries I wayfind. No
stars, front windows, or even light-leak
from pulp-mill or city street
bleaches the sky. My feet
have to feel their way
by the caked mud of the rut
and it’s too dark to tell
if my eyes are still open or shut.