There's a place where the highway     
slopes down and disappears left,         
but to the right of the river.                     
                                                             
A little dirt turnout and
a steep path of loose sand and rock
tell you that other people
have had the same idea.

When you step away from the road
and there's nothing between you
and the apparent forever of Alaska
wilderness, you can almost understand
why Jack London stole this place.

It isn't yours either.

Not the river that breaks
and rejoins, winding over
open space between rocks
and around patches of brush
and grasses whose names,
real names,
aren't yours in English.
Or their Latin.

Not the mountains, 
whose rich green 
is still patched with snow, 
and come Fall will be iced with 
termination dust. 

Not the pale grey log. 
When you step on it, 
the log stays steady. 
It’s you who wobbles. 

Not the cloudy, silted water 
that soaks your shoes. 
Not the ground, whose top 
layer is a delicate crust, 
sending fault lines 
radiating from each 
of your steps. 
Not the pale grey silt 
you rub between your fingers, 
as fine as icing sugar, 
as fine as ash. 
It clings to your hands, even 
after you brush your palms together 
and send a cloud of particles 
downwind.

The ash is yours, 
but you are ashamed of it, 
wash it away, 
hope it will blend 
with the glacial silt, hope 
you can wipe away 
your fault lines.