Out in the ferns, the mosquitos wander freely, no chaperone.

Quiet? There is no quiet out there. The babbling in my head follows me everywhere,

We went up to the mountain but the baggage followed us up. Small complaints, passages of our life through time.

We get sleepy with everyone’s small foibles. They become caricatures of ourselves. Aspects those close to us see every day.

“I’ve got this feeling that….”  Yes we know! You had that same feeling last year.

Your face turns away, turns toward, pulls us all with you in your quest for grounding.



Out here, my breath flows long and easy, one diamond moment to the next.

Out here, I reach and actually touch the bright fire morning of your eyes.

Out here, the street becomes just a street, and the mountain returns to being itself.