Diablo to Ross Lake

It’s not the steep climb out of the glade
through lancing devil’s club leaves.
Not the sudden face-to-ass with a bear
shitting berries before it bolts.
Not the scrabble over mossy talus,
half-step to each big stone, alert for
the hollow klock that can snap an ankle.
But the cliff-side trail a hundred yards 
above the lake – where a slip can trigger
a rockslide down to glacial water . . .
We shrink at the edge of its sudden gulf.
Not even the edge. Something primal
tugs at a cuff, judders the rocks –
Come closer. You know you can.