The Trailhead

There is a sign, and the sign is a hiker. It is a very small hiker, built out of squares, in a red cap.

You turn. The hiker turns with you. On your wrist the watch has stopped telling the time. It is pointing.

Someone has scratched a compass rose into the post. It has nine points. Eight are cut deep. The ninth has been rubbed at with a thumb, not enough to take it out.

A path of pale dirt goes up between cedar elms and live oaks. Each tree has an aluminum tag nailed at the height of your hand, and the numbers on them count down. A creek crosses the path. A hill follows the creek. A hill follows that. At the top there is a small orange flag on a wire stake, and no one beside it.