Following the old maps, he arrived
just where he had planned to be.
The landscape conformed to interpretation:
that hill, those clumps of trees, the village gathered
around the bridge. He saw the things
he’d expected to see, given the forecasts,
the time of year: the lone fox and the raven falling.
He wasn’t prepared for the motorbike
coming screaming round where the road forked right
in a curving descent over spreading contours
to the valley floor. Nothing could indicate how to turn
avoiding oblivion, the uncharted plunge,
the way time stretched through the flick of an eye
to a sound and a light in a circling loop;
but he did.
Gratitude for Whatever
I cant be anything other
What’s the point?
Lamentation?It is too hard work.
Gratitude is the point
of least resistance.