In words, onwards.

I walk a tortuous trail past nettle and knot-weed. My feet knocking heavy on the boardwalk, sloshing steady through the agua estancada. Here along the lakeside, I lay witness to circumvolutions of infinitesimal waves riding out from their origin: marbles meeting mirrors. Crystalline droplets stream off of my hydrophobic core and soak into the skin which covers my femur, patella, tibia, fibula… From the black hills, atmospheric water catches on the aromatic exhalations of evergreens and other forest foliage. The mist mingles with the tips and boughs of trees, and rolls into the valley.

This place is my place, the forest in which I have weathered thunderstorms flashing purple static curled up in close quarters with tiny white feathers shed by a thousand geese, and the smoke, spice, and bite of another blazing soul.

Contemplate transient as a curse-word again. No. Contemplate transient as a gift – the logic of drifting clouds and shifting weather patterns. The need to migrate for survival.

And the sun, streaming down through the canopy. This forest where I have gone careening down the trails and rolling in the dirt. The land where I have laid back in a mossy mat and watched sun shining through the vasculature of big leaf maple, this place where I have snapped off and sucked on the sweet root of Polypodium glycyrrhiza.

This is the home of the double rainbow and sun showers.

And these interstates, the coursing veins of small highways, routes and knowledge of their place in the system of things, carry me on to so many other spaces which I am a part of. The freezing desert nights, flickering candles and cellulosic matter of dead trees combusting. Gazing at spirals of galaxies, pondering constellations and the photons which tell us they were once there too.

Talks and encounters with all of those elders who are most rooted, the ones who understand that those with legs must wander.

The time before I venture outward from this – city – where “transient” is a curse word is counting downwards.


2 responses to “In words, onwards.

  1. Beautiful. Deepest gratitude for the reflection. Muse is as muse does. I would much like to publish these words as an excerpt and testament to curly smoke in the rain and old gems walking poodles. I see into your prose, young elder.

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