Walking. There is no trail. I follow the accumulated energies of the world, not merely my nose. There is a path that is to be taken, as sure as the gravitational fall line that carries a skier to the greatest velocity and thrill in the downhill race: there is a pathway in the bush that presents itself as the way to go. I am impelled: the bushwalker, on the asymptotic pathway among infinite permutations.
I am on a planet, I am in a country: how absurd is that. I am in a state, I am in a county: how absurd is that? I am in a national forest, I am on Forest Road number 12: how absurd is that? I am in the forest, somewhere, off the Forest Road, an un-named place, I am stepping, full of care. There is no trail. I follow not my nose, but the aura of an energized gradient, a fall line of the self, as a being. How absurd is that? I am falling along that line, down, down, down, away within the roaring beauty of presence.
Stars careen through life’s nighttime, momentary solace to the parched days of no rain. Nights of virga, souls falling, falling, falling, yet never reaching the Earth: convective transcendence instead filling Heaven with we, the fallen.