a little rain
on a little slope
races seaward
the world blurs,
my brain strains to track
its motion
in stillness
one loses the world’s
steady spin
i throw myself
to silly dance — joyous
that i can
the perched raven
still swivels its eye
in stone mode
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.
