Traces   The signs are subtle — slight openings, a scuff through the trees, fallen leaves pressed a bit flat, a faint parting in the grass, just enough.   This is no wilderness — people have been here, they made their way and their ways were rough, but by God I’ll find them, follow them. When   I squint my eyes I start to see the path, learn the way, burn the trace into the brain’s wet wiring, prowl this forest like a cat.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2016