I was the tallest migrant on the trail this morning, catching webs on my cheek every few feet. Across the meadow, the pheasant were dancing so I rested and watched awhile. Wet grasses. Still air. My chest rose in this full moon hangover.
Walking is a work that undoes the work and thinking about that is work, so I just walk. Mostly.
unfastening I find room off the trail already prepared
A new flame rises from old wood. Or is the blaze always recycling, burning and dying just out of linear reach? The ash is easier to process. It blackens my hands and scatters in the breathy night. Tangible. Knowable. Inert?
Walking can be a meandering.
Or it can be the way to get somewhere else.
And it can be the surest course reducing the me that exists without.