It’s not a path that takes you very far.
It starts across the field from where you’re standing
but only brings you back to where you are.

You try it, like a door that’s left ajar.
A little uphill climb, not too demanding;
it’s not a path that takes you very far.

It’s better, though, than sitting in the car.
The view, while not what you would call “commanding,”
at least gives you a sense of where you are.

Between two pines you glimpse the reservoir
where swallows briefly rest before disbanding.
Their paths, like yours, don’t take them very far.

The catbird practicing its repertoire,
the squirrel perched above you, reprimanding,
return you to the sense that, where you are—

though not a garden painted by Renoir—
the monarch’s ever on the verge of landing.
It’s not a path that takes you very far.
It only brings you back to where you are.