The columns of the forest lift the vaulted canopy. I walk down below on the trail that parts understory. Each step through the loam brings me home to barefoot days of yore. When I thought nothing of placing skin to the forest floor -- while letting the woods become me as I grew into it; I would yield my identity. To nature, I'd submit. And in a walk, I did become everything and nothing, falling into a peace at once humbling and stunning.
A baker from the city of Bishkek made breads that were so fully bedecked - the patterns so fancy - I felt so unclassy, devouring every last crumb and fleck.
Three shambling silhouettes stagger through the fog toward the river / border. Will they see before being seen? That is the question. If not, they may hear shots as their bodies are already crumpling, pierced by bullets that out-speed the rifle crack.
A visitor to scenic Almaty was dismayed to find no apple trees. He couldn't be blamed; it's right in the name, but he's stuck with a store picking spree.
robe-wrapped tree, standing like an old monk teaching stillness
I scoured vast seas in search of wisdom lost. It happened when they made me walk the plank, like scuttled wreckage, sunk sans thought of cost, as I began to rise, my treasure sank. I bobbed in seas that each way looked the same. How could I find my way back to that spot carried by currents dastardly untamed, and found days later by a ragged yacht. And so I drift upon the choppy seas, and hope for winds to steer me on my course, but mostly there's not even a slight breeze, and I'm stuck in ghost screams of a dumped horse. I hope one day to regain my attitude, but not stuck down in these damned horse latitudes.
Struggling to wiggle its wings, the butterfly warms in the morning sun. Is it like sleep paralysis - that hypnopompic impulse to flee that's stymied by stuck muscles? What's a wind gust or rapidly advancing shadow like for the butterfly? Normally, such occurrences would provoke an erratic fluttering away. But now the screaming instinct to wing away can't be answered. Does the butterfly know dread, or does it just quietly await the moment it's unfrozen? cool morning - a butterfly twitches, but can't yet fly
I dreamt the door looked out upon treetops and I could walk out on blue sky and cloud and see the world as would a tall cyclops. I dreamt the door looked out upon treetops, but in my dream I plunged into the copse. Sky walking proved more dream than was allowed. I dreamt the door looked out upon treetops, but could I walk out to blue sky and cloud?
a grazing bull sees its pond reflection, but resumes forthwith
