Telling: Streams & Logs


beaten path

I read somewhere that wilderness is a place without pathways. I wake up longing for a path like a drowning man his rope. At the kitchen table I do my usual magic, plotting my way through the day, tumbling together the known and the needed, the expected and the desired, looking for fit and pattern. Looking for resonance. But nothing sparks. Rocks in a cement truck, these list items tumble together. I will get through. But there's no fire to it. No song. No light. No joy. Just rock in cement. This is the path. It will do. Just don't expect dancing.

Day 2. But who's counting.