Photo by David Morris
My longer trajectory is a trick of the light. I used to take stock, mapping short-term and long-term plans as if those disembodied articulations of desire were apotropaic, would magically ward off chaos in five- year chunks. Not so; not here. The landscape looks real, but it’s only made real in a moment of contact: clay under nails, a small bruise where my shin met a low limb hard, respiration (mine, yours) fogging the horizon ahead. Ever prepared I was, two maps in hand, when a sudden gust turned them to kites with no strings, floating, soaring up and over a low ridge before they were lost to sight, like I am now.