It says on Google Maps that it takes 15 minutes to get there, but it's three times that with a dog stopping to sniff every three feet,
and half when I'm meeting a friend by the worn graffiti under the bridge. We can't smoke because he forgot the lighter. We sit on rough concrete and name plants,
like when my parents walked this trail with my sister in a backpack, two and a half dogs ago
swamp milkweed growing at the bank of the shallow creek loves wet feet, just like I do, splashing around and filling my tiny rubber boots, scattering the cliques of tiny fish, flickering shadows.
English ivy as invasive as its name climbs white oak and maple trees. “Leaves of three, let them be, until you have time to come back with gloves and a bag. Look out for those who don't know.”
The brambles will bite you, but they fruit in summer, apologetic. My dog met his first chipmunk here, and I ate my first mulberry, some years prior to my first teary breakup,
different points along the path.
Do you think anyone would notice, he said, tapping a seed out of the grinder into his palm. We could grow here.
About the Author
Ross PM Creason is from northern Virginia, pursuing a BFA between the Shenandoah mountains and the Chesapeake Bay. His work has been published in unstamatic and in boats against the current. The poet dedicates this piece to Molly, Jolene, and Macduff: Thanks for walking with me on the trail for a while.