Foresters blazed a wide trail
up the steep grade to a rock point,
Angel’s Rest they called it
for relief from the climb.
Along the swath two bodies wide,
a narrow path intersects the broad way
a thread that was the natives’ track
before the roads of industry,
the trail barely visible
to the place of power they knew,
of vision quest and high plateau,
snow crested peaks in each direction
from high desert to the river and sea.
They lined their path with stones
their mark a long angular sinew,
delicately connecting place to place
without the woodmen’s gash.
Those days are gone but the track remains,
a faint and subtle path of stones
placed so long ago with reverence.