We roust a bear on our way back from the fire ponds. It peers at me from the oak tree, the limbs of which are its refuge, appearing almost bored. This is what I meant to say. How lovely the forest is, and how welcoming, and all I know of loveliness and welcome.
This writing project cannot be possessed! Nor do I owe anybody anything. I've never claimed to be other than a wordy fool. I've never suggested I can do more than stumble around in search of grace.
Spiders rest in the center of their webs. Beer bottles emerge from the soil, half a century old. That's what rain does: bring the past back to us. How I hate that old intrusion!
It's easy to surrender what one doesn't want. That's what we say the trail means, no? But the question is: what are trails good for? And usually the answer is found off the trail, where the woods grow thick and gnarly, and the bears look at you as if to say: again?
Yes, again! And again and again and again! Now what? Now this, naturally.
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