A Sound of Thunder

Jan 13 2019

I tightrope the narrow path

where others have packed the snow,

the heavy treads

of their comings and goings

frozen fast in time.

Following its meandering course;

where the first pathfinder stumbled, perhaps,

or in a moment of inattention

zigzagged left and right.

It is night,

and my headlamp's focused beam

is white on ghostly white;

distilled light

glinting off the virgin drifts

and picking up the sloping limbs

of freshly frosted trees.

Just a small misstep, and I'm up to my knees

in the soft deep snow

that shoulders-in on the path.

As in most things,

following in the footsteps

of those who came before;

grateful

that others have broken trail,

for the solid footing

that grounds me here.

I am reminded of that Ray Bradbury tale

of travellers to the distant past,

who must stick

to the strictly prescribed path

or put the future at risk;

a single blade of grass

inadvertently crushed,

a butterfly's wing

trapped underfoot.

Consequence

that ripples out over time;

the errant step

that disproportionately magnifies.

Yet how tempted I am

to strike out on my own,

depart the well-trodden path

for the dark solitude

and majestic indifference

of uninhabited winter.

But the snow is impassable

excluding us all.

So I negotiate the narrow path

through the preternatural stillness

of the over-towering trees.

Walking by myself

yet depending upon the help

of all who came before.

And adding what I can

for those who come after.

The title is lifted from that Ray Bradbury short story. Thunder doesn't really fit with winter, but I think an homage was in order. And anyway, I've always rather like misdirection in a title.