Just After Sleepless

Two a.m. or just after - sleepless, wordy, and thinking of Her - I slip outside and head for the old field. Early October is a kind of fulcrum, a kind of kiss you can't quite say you want. Yet the dog leaves a trail in the frost beneath moonlight, one that I follow without thinking (though very much with - or in - awareness). Tracks have always mattered to me as a kind of narrative: who passed, how they traveled, where perhaps they were headed. The big dipper balanced just so, its ladle touching the horizon. The map is everywhere, and the territory a dream, and yet. Are we always being pulled towards decision? Towards remembering a decision? I bend south and slightly west onto the old airstrip, walking slowly, wondering who - if anyone - marks my going.