Living on the Edge

Just as the world tilts forward,

the path narrows to nothing

but crushed stone and faith.

My boots grip loose shale

while the canyon opens

like a hole that's been waiting.

Wind rises from below,

carrying the scent of sage

and bear droppings,

fresh enough to be scared.

The trail marker warns:

Proceed at your own risk.

But risk is relative

when you've already walked

three miles up

and the only way back

is down.

My backpack shifts.

A pebble breaks free,

tumbles into silence

so deep I never hear it land.

Ahead, the path curves

around rock face,

disappears into air

and possibility.

My next step waits

on a path I can't see,

trusting ground

that might not exist.

I walk forward.

And the mountain pushes me.

Everything balances

on the edge

of letting go.