There were mountains.
Some green.
Lots of rock.
It was twilight much of the time
except when sun spanked the horizon.
My ancestors noticed these things
only as it pertained to goat schedules
and meal preparation.
Few of us have looked up or dared
to imagine something more.
It doesn’t matter.
There is no more than mountains and
green and rock and dinner.
It was a three-man team,
following me
as I meandered
along the trail
for the first time
since bears and floods
held sway.
One moth was white,
another orange,
and the third yellow.
They flitted alongside
above the brambles
as I held my body tightly
watching and listening
for signs of danger.
They seemed to hover close
as if they were wondering,
“is she alright?”
After much shuffling
through mud and sadness,
I asked myself “am I alright?”
I made it back to my car
refreshed but with no answers
and the moths returned
to the woods.
Watchers of the aimless.
Today is tidy, all components
fitting together like a packed sausage.
Not much room for sentiment
when drowning in tedium.
The trick is to keep at least one thing
to yourself, wild and unpredictable.
It helps stave off the full brunt
of quiet desperation.
Standing on a shifting planet
staring at soft outlines of clouds
intermingling with each other
making sky fractals
remembering how important
maps used to be
before an inner gravity
pressed the landscape
into a non-nutritive pancake.
A little syrup and morning is redeemed
but the great gaping hole
in the middle of me
is greedy and this place is uninhabitable.
