Photo by Bill Keller

by Bill Keller

Call me up to the ridge, again.

Though it’s late, and I’m tired, I’ll come, 

climbing without my headlamp through

lichens round as lily pads to 

the solitary lookout spruce

you hunted from all summer long.


I won’t slide the switch; I’ll wait

to see your shadow swoop across 

the stars, or better, hear your voice

both rip the night in half and

bind me to the dark, these woods,  

to silent, endless time and you.


If I drift into layered dreams,

I’ll wake to know what I should do:

throw light, race down the mossy run

to soft road dozing under moon,

you chasing, warning, all the way,

till I’m out and gone, never to return.

Bill Keller

Novelist, poet, naturalist, photographer