In the pre-dawn grey of late November, enough light to walk.
The oak leaves, last in autumn to fall, blanket the trail.
And it’s clear, even without contrast, someone has been on this path
Before you.
Or maybe some thing, coyote, deer, racoon, dogs.
There is a shadow, dark by the grey-brown leaf,
Lifting an edge to reveal something walked or stood or landed here
Before this moment.
Or maybe it’s a record, until the next rain, or the first snow, of yesterday’s passage.
Your own footfalls insisting on their presence.
Contouring the trail, biasing the route forward, reaching back to remind you to pause
Before what is next.
