On the road to every town, a marker—

Signposts by which people might remember a time before their time. The first camp, where soldiers led pack mules to the river so all could drink. From there to the next, the work of ascending. The words gorge and ravine, limestone and shale. Black line like ants following a dogged trail, the terror of snapped scaffolding. Past the final encampment, at last the prospect of drawing up house lots. Plumb line and pencil, taut lengths of string. Even without clear winter, the sky darkened early in the hills. Maps were so sure of their directions to spaces of breathable air. I remember the signature notes of resin and pine, hard rolls of bread at dawn. Everything else, a deed now in others’ hands.