Overtaken by a black beemer and shortly thereafter by waste management and all its huffing, I forget my prayers. The way is simply the way. I follow it. There are places you can hear the water under the street, unexpected places. This scar-tissue asphalt. Why is it I insist on singling things out and naming them distinct. This Hill. The top of This Hill, the bottom, the place where the land becomes something other than This Hill. A senseless designation. The ground goes up. The ground goes down. A woman whose t-shirt proclaims BACON DREAMS, loads her things into the car, preparing for the day. I pivot homeward. In the lee of their resting place, I assure the sleeping dead that I do not wish to rest among them. Their place is not my place. They know it. I know it. I do not stop to reach through the fence rods into the ivy to extract the paper cup that lies so whitely there. I think that I should, but I do not.
Telling: Streams & Logs