There is something about being on top of a ridge
and seeing the whole world spread out.
We used to go ridge runnin’
as fast as our father’s pickups could handle the windy roads,
steep dropoffs to the right and tree trunks for guardrails.
Anxious for the dizzying pull of a curve,
seldom did we slow at the top to look around.
The forward motion intoxicated us,
that and our friends and the radio and beer.
Later in life
those of us left
walk up the ridges
that rise from our own backyards.
We pause for a breath
or to examine a tree’s bark,
our only companion a dog.
There is something about being at the top of a ridge
that allows looking forward
and backward
at once.