Monday, April 9, 2012

One Can Be Psychologically Adept

Wind at 4 a.m. defines what. A fox in the far field, silver in scant moonlight. What fades and what does not. A lie? We are here and we are listening.

One stops to talk. Ravens settle on the fallen maple and give us hell for looking. Change is what doesn't happen, actually. A cold wind, one that eventually turned us back toward home. That and river sounds.

I mean, the tyranny of want. The body's needs multiply when we begin to intuit other energies. Keep it simple isn't bad advice. Stone steps designed to impress don't fail. One can be psychologically adept and still . . .

Still? What does it come back to then? Return is ever the defining theme. The fox turns to watch us or so we like to think. Morning, yet again.

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