I have walked past my widest range,
But still the landscape does not change.
The branch that scrapes across my face
I once saw from a distant place,
But never closer than a mile.
I lean against its bark awhile.
The last worn wheel-ruts disappear.
Rain-beaten rocks lie sharp and clear.
My eyes are used to sights like these:
I stand between familiar trees.
Two wind-blown hemlocks make a door
To country I shall soon explore.