MUTED SNAKE, view East towards present-day Idaho, at Winter Solstice [ click photo for next . . . ]
On the road in the Northwest of America.

Every well-made path was once only

a possibility. Because it is well-made, daily

use only makes it more beautiful.

WANDERER

Moving,
always moving, and

living inside movement. Not the
artful, cyclic, back
and forth
of the migratory birds, but
more the
discrete
stammer
of a tongue finding its way down

the tangled
streets of peregrine
words;

Not

the fountain’s smooth, continuous,
laminar flow, nor
the fractal exuberance of
white water,
but a broken movement of stops and starts,
our passageway to the wayside,
to the
travail of

these necessary crossings
of arbitrary borders...

Light. Easy.
Taking refuge among the trees.

The rhythm, of cautious walking,
a weaving
together
of the unfamiliar and half-
forgotten,
picking up songs as we go like
so many seeds
moving from home to

home on
the fur of our pants.

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