June 11, 2009
The land took a steep turn downward through the woods. “We’re going down,” I said over my shoulder to a friend who was clearly hesitant about the truth of this statement.
“I’m dizzy just looking down there,” she said.
We went anyways.
We half-walked-half-slid-down through the non-path in the woods that wasen’t quite tamed for traveling, through the tree-sheilded land of lost kickballs, overunderaround fallen trees and piles of dead leaves and a trickle of stream. My unconfident friend in tow, I tried to feel some kind of certain that the nonexistent path I was creating would carry us somewhere worth going.
Such unassuming walks usually do.
Finally, after pushing through bushes, coming face to face with a clearing who acquainted me with knowing the vastness of sky which life’s movements had recently concealed, and climbing up tree-root-ladders, we spotted a picnic table in the midst of the trees: a signal of abandoned once-life.
As we sat on the table to recover from the journey with unknown purpose, a through-the-trees gaze taught us the nearness of the river.
We sat with the trees and the sight of water so surprisingly ours and said simultaneous phrases to make poetry, wrote the words on rocks, and left them to mark the place where everything had led.