Bear Claw

Eastern white cedars line the exposed ridge,
layers of uninterrupted blue hold the sky open;
rich, summer air holds the day close. 

We are following the bear claw marks
that scar and slice giant limestone boulders
cluttering the landscape ten arm spans from shore.

Our feet crunch on top of trillions of fossils
buried and pressed; bone turned to stone.
We scurry on all fours, slip on wet slabs,

crack loose sediment, and crawl through caves.
We are children again; his boy is shining. 
Look! he says, smiling over his shoulder,

index finger stretched, There’s more over there!
One, two, three, four: bear claw marks
separating efflorescence to our left,

and again, higher up, on our right.
We pass a decaying wing of a pale bird,
some red remains where scapula ends.

There are more up here! It’s amazing, 
he runs his left hand over jagged cuts,
you can see where it slipped!

Beads of sweat gather and drip, our skin 
burns, my left thigh is scratched and bleeding.
We find a dead thing, rib cage snapped,

It looks more like a fox than a raccoon, I say.
We follow the bear claw marks. The sun tilts.
The wind arches along the escarpment.

Gulls, hawks, and vultures offer blinks of shade.
We scale and scramble. Fear rises and falls. 
I hesitate. He guides me. We are timeless.  

Past is pulled from the chest, riptide 
sucks it into the gut of the darkest blue.
This is what innocence used to be like.