It’s an act of faith to adjust the strobe
click from dark, to blink, to steady beam.
We listen for the growl of cars with full moon eyes.
Untrusting, I swing my flashlight arm to mark our path
on the twisted road, where cones warn
against the crevasse of buckled pavement.
Each storm spills more snapped branches,
sprawled trunks, rocks loosened in the abundant rain.
Tonight, fewer fireflies in the haze,
the red ball we climbed for,
unbelievably quick in its sinking.
At the bottom, a waiting truck
taunts with its flashing reds. I know the shadow
of the snag by the side of the road is not a bear.
Yet, I always imagine one there,
not aggressive or unfriendly—simply erect,
watchful. Only you can prevent… Only you.
