Carl Little A Hiker I Know

A Hiker I Know

carl little

stacks hands on head as he walks through woods pretending he’s captured by the Cong. He does it when no one’s around moving along the path, looking side to side in underbrush, prodded by his captors toward the summit

of Beech Mountain where lookout fire tower stands, unmanned, marched past sentinels into camp where he’ll rot in the cage of his imagination, MIA or POW, or forgotten, the draft a bad dream, old arms, now stiff at his sides, right one aching from Covid shot.

He pays last respects to fallen trees, each day goes deeper into woods daring himself to lose his way. An Art Blakey saying, “Jazz washes away the dust of everyday life,” seems to make sense as his fingers go numb atop his head, as his footsteps fade to evergreen.