The trail is there, as if waiting. It bears any walker into the forest, sunlight streaming through pine trees. Water sings where the slope allows it. And the red eft hesitates in unseasonal cold, slick and muscular on directionless moss.
Alone is neither penalty nor opportunity. The busy world assembles and groans but it cannot undo Stillness. Esso oil cans splintered by bullets are pushed up by rain, reminding me of what was difficult in childhood. We are not mistaken when we say that pumpkin seeds are a thousand dreams of orange.
Will this writing do? One hears the directive - do not disturb what is placid - and all morning wonders what expression is still allowed. The mail now goes unanswered. And chickadees balance on the clothesline, accepting the form that is given.
Close to what is motiveless and without personality one learns the next stage requires an even lighter load. "Empty," she said over and over, brushing her hand through the air. Where I am going, vows are neither made nor broken. Not this, not anymore.
Roseate dawn after a last spate of rain and roosters hollering in all directions. Somewhere a door closes, and closer one opens. No prayer but the prayer learned in solitude. Starlight given now to night.
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