I walked quickly this morning, head down, cold hands in pockets. Sunlight flashed on the little brook. Bridges are good but only in the sense they facilitate travel. One admires the inclination of ash to rise and infers accordingly that death is no big deal. Or something like that.
The dog's hackles were up the whole walk, odd given that the only trail signs were of a moose walking north. A bear still gorging before its winter rest? Ice lined the pond's edge and for the first morning in seven there were no geese floating on its glassy surface. Well, we are all in motion.
It's odd how I long to possess time and resent intrusions upon it. One learns that the present moment is all there is and then recalls the lesson over and over, thus obviating it. Still, beneficence is everywhere. I have long imagined stars as pinpricks in a vast black fabric, signalling a greater - a blinding - light beyond. Remind me sometime to talk to you about prisms.
Sunlight was a red bruise east coming home. One goes deeper into their greed and begins to sense it has no bottom and then what? There are many "yous" but only one "I." Is that right? We find an interior waystation and linger, see who else shows up, and make a party of it, hiding as always in language.