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Level and gravel and straight,
on my right, first the creek and then the cliff-side,
left the steep hill that reaches up say fifty feet,
my co-sojourner the landscape accompanied me
as the path prescribed for me my footsteps.
Looking on forward I saw no bend or fork,
and thinking myself not having any say,
I stayed steady on that same familiar way.
But as the creek strayed further and the forest grew,
I saw in the bush a half-trodden trail.
I could scarcely see which way it went
as it bent this way and that,
saplings arching too low, too narrow for me
to make my way to that uncertain place.
Besides, I reasoned, this way was not made
by human hands for human feet.
Probably it was first formed by some dog or deer
that on instinct or fear darted into the forest,
and in its haste it tore some brambles from a tree
or trampled the young leaves of some vine,
leaving some rough clearing for the next time
another scared animal would part the trail deeper.
So it goes that such trails are formed
by dumb luck and nothing more,
and so I chose again that same path
I’d walked a hundred times before,
thinking myself wiser having had my path precede me,
while other animals know
the steps come first and then the way follows.