He doesn't want to tell her that they're lost,
although he can't pretend to have a clue
whether that shaky bridge should have been crossed.
He stalls a moment, tying up a shoe.
He sees her waiting for him at the curve
and almost hears that little fretting sigh.
It won't take much. He knows he must preserve
this tranquil moment, so he scans the sky,
calls out to her, points out there's not a cloud.
There hasn't been one since they started out.
She glares at him. Perhaps he was too loud?
He trots towards her with that same old doubt;
he never knows what things will set her off.
But once she's going, boy, head for the hills!
The smallest things. Sometimes it's just a cough.
Or just last week: not sending off those bills.
She strides ahead, displeasure in her back,
he knows he mustn't try to calm her down.
With great relief he sees a woodman's shack
-- it's on the map! They must be nearing town.
He catches up and offers her some fruit;
she takes it from him, pays him half a smile.
Now if he stays quite still, alert, astute,
their balance will return in just a while.