Thru-hiking a sheep-cropped pasture,
I spied a shepherd in repose,
in the shadow of a boulder.
I asked, “Do you know which way it flows?”

“It flows? What flows? the creek below?”

“I know the creek must flow downhill.
I mean how I flow through the world,
or it through me — by force or will?”

“I know when I lie here it slows,
between the bleats and blowing winds,
and I wonder through shaded eyes
whether the world is still in spin?”

I nodded, wandering on, wondering whether the world would stop for the likes of me.