Where Are You Going?

“Where are you going?” she asks.

"Out," I say. "For a walk."

                                                 "But where?"

Perhaps just to the top of the hill,

the dog and I, a slow climb

up a rutted road, and rocky,

rock-strewn to trip me

in my mindless amble, wandering;

or to the point, around the cove,

to look back to where I am now,

leaving this place, look back at where

I’ve been, unaware, even, how I got here,

not sure if I’ll return or continue on;

or maybe to the trailhead, the East’s

long trail, and pausing there, wondering:

north to the mountain end? or south,

taking that first step, Georgia bound?

A journey I don’t have time to complete,

not today, but another day, perhaps;

“I don’t know, just going out.

For a walk. Come, take my hand.

Walk with me into tomorrow.”