I step out of my old red truck
and slowly straighten creaky knees.
With a little bit of luck
I hope to stroll through winter trees.

The first time this forest felt my tread
was way back in my younger days
when hair was rife upon my head
with just a hint of coming grays.

Late winter, I don my camo coat
to ward off chilly morning breeze
and grasp the staff I've come to tote
then pocket my cell phone and keys.

I survey the ditch beside the road
which I used to bound across
before I carried time's dense load,
before the strength of my youth's loss.

Instead I find a low spot there
and take three steps to cross the ditch,
three steps taken with great care.
I start scratching my yearning's itch.

A dozen steps then stop to rest
leaning on my home made staff
breathing winter deep into my chest
which makes me cough then makes me laugh.

Here, just within the forest's edge
I look around while heart slows down
at moss, lichen and privet hedge,
at duff once painted, now turned brown.

Then perhaps another thirty paces
before sitting on a fallen log
in sight of one of those special places
where a spring head forms a tiny bog.

That bog is silent in this cold;
soon peepers and frogs will make it ring
through woods where winter's growing old
where soon the birds will court and sing.

Just then a crow flies overhead
and leaves with just a single caw
as it flies off toward an old homestead
which declines across that little draw.

A pain shoots from my knees to hips.
I sigh and get pills from my pants
then let two pass beyond my lips
while counting mounds from fire ants.

Then I arise refusing now to wait,
the pills will take too long to work,
meanwhile sweat builds on my bare pate
which I swipe off with an abrupt jerk.

Thud, crunch crunch...thud, crunch crunch
staff, two steps; a varied pace.
a few yards turn into a bunch.
Midmorning sun falls on my face.

The top of a pine ridge comes in sight
as does a stump which calls to me.
It begs me to rest, to cease to fight
the aches which lately assail me.

I heed that near stump's siren call
and sit where oaks and ridge pines meet,
where I shot a buck one fall
when stride was silent and still fleet.

And as I rest I quench my thirst
from the canteen on my hip
just as wind builds with a sudden burst.
I close my coat with a smooth zip.

The sky is clear and blue today
and aches retreat due to the pills.
Turkeys fuss and flap, there, far away.
their clucks echo through the gentle hills.

Thoughts turn to my corkscrewed walking staff
how woodbine made it grow that way
and just as the sapling became sick
I found and cut it one fall day.

A squirrel appears around a tree
then another one, perhaps its mate.
I move my foot, he barks at me.
I rise, the daylight will not wait.

The dogwood tree buds I now see
are large and readying for spring
here where the land's not felt the plow
nor fences which men often bring.

Legs don't hurt but they remember
that they are not what they once were.
They refuse to completely unlimber.
Pills dull the pain but they don't cure.

At last the ridge top is attained.
Where I stand as wind sighs through the pines
here where chestnut trees once reigned
where I one time gathered muscadines.

Below I see the middling stream
where I've seen wood ducks and otters play
in a past which almost seems a dream.
The creek, though, is empty today.

And there, a sapling bears a scar
of antler rubbing from last fall.
The coming autumn seems so far.
Some chipmunks play in a windfall.

I used to ford that little creek
a goal that's now beyond my reach.
There's no trust for old knees grown weak
so I go and sit beneath a beech.

The beech still shows a lover's mark
initials and a heart carved long ago
by some lad feeling loves first spark?
His name? I guess I'll never know.

A train whistles long, long miles from here
with a lonely longing sound
whose tune startles a few coyotes near.
Sudden yips and howls make my heart pound.

And now a hawk wheels through the sky
chased by at least six diving crows
punctuated by the hawk's shrill cry,
a tableau every woodsman knows.

The morning is now afternoon
which means it's time for me to go.
I hope to return to here soon
but as I age and the years grow
there's no way that I can really know.