The eastern branch of the trail
ends near the mouth of the creek,
running a bow yoke to the river,
and the best walks bring me here,
facing south, as the sandhill crane
flies above Walton bridge—
fishing with father, a walk here
with mother—dramatic in light,
signets, beech, longing—space
to touch the air among fens
and jack pine, falls, where salmon
take ladders to spawn—a spot
to be—in all, two-hundred miles,
an early route for voyageur canoes
between Mississippi watershed
and Lake Michigan—Marquette
would know this place in 1675
—Potawatomi know it better—
later, French trappers, loggers
in maple, walnut, and oak leaning
north—I see a man dreaming,
deliberating with each step,
grateful for the next one
that leads to always, a river.
