Tuesday, August 6, 2013


Can’t be.
Not here,
Not on the trail to Nistowiak Falls,
near Stanley Mission.
Not a pop can.
But there it is,
not crumpled,           
or tossed,
or dropped,
but upright,
nestled among the purple asters and the foliage,
like a newborn swaddled in its bassinette.
Only the depressed tab on the pristine can
attests that a hiker,
skulking along the trestle
between stewardship and convenience,
rid himself of  the insufferable burden
ten minutes before returning to camp.
And I,
no better,
photograph the can,
pronounce judgment,
and leave it there.
Impatience and oblivion prevail again.
O Earth, where is the hope?

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