After He Registers for the Draft,
My Son and I Hike Pilot Mountain

Because he is 18 and nothing
can hurt him, he leads.
We are walking the top of God's head,
the name he gave this knob
when he was too small to carry
the pack that carries water for us,
a Snickers bar each, the map.
Beside the Yadkin the narrow trail
bumps over dry roots and rock,
and in low places our shoes.
A group of horsemen sidles down to the river
and passes to the other side, crossing the current
as though they follow an invisible route we do not see.
Their horses do not stumble, not even once.
My son tells me he has seen wild boars in the woods,
so close he could hit them with a stick,
their teeth snagging on whiskers thick
as steel blades. He has been asleep
when elk have lain beside his tent,
heat from their bodies pressing
against him. Even bears have left blood
near his campfire. He has pretty much
seen it all in the woods, he tells me.
He is not afraid of anything.
Then, without warning, he whips around,
spins my shoulders, pushes me back.
Go, he says, Go, hurrying behind me,
his face steely and white.
When we finally stop, he says,
It was huge. Covered the path.
Head like a diamond. I am lucky
I saw it before my boot came down.
There is an almost indecipherable shiver in his voice,
so small that if I didn't know him so well
I would not detect it.
We sit on a fallen trunk
sharing bites of chocolate.
Overhead, a small dot of hawk circles.
He stares across the river where the horses have gone,
silent, and I can't take my eyes from him.

From Kakalak 2008: Anthology of Carolina Poets, ©2008