Can’t be.
Not here,
Not on the trail to Nistowiak Falls,
near Stanley Mission.
Not a pop can.
But there it is,
not
crumpled,
or tossed,
or dropped,
but upright,
nestled among the purple asters and
the foliage,
like a newborn swaddled in its bassinette.
Only the
depressed tab on the pristine can
attests
that a hiker,
skulking
along the trestle
between stewardship
and convenience,
rid himself
of the insufferable
burden
ten minutes
before returning to camp.
And I,
no better,
photograph
the can,
pronounce
judgment,
and leave
it there.
Impatience
and oblivion prevail again.
O Earth, where is the hope?
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