Every journey begins somewhere. In the shadows of the forest canopy, eggs fry, splattering bacon fat. Coffee percolates.
Where trees have fallen mushrooms will grow. I don’t know how this ends, but I think I’m ready.
Campfire tales say Sasquatch walks beside the vulnerable following closely in the shadows.
Dancing in moonlight, walking naked in the breeze. She breathes cedar and pine—at ease more peaceful than those who surround her.
She’s dying, as we all are. But her trajectory is faster, more precise. Like a lead foot on the accelerator. Cancer will do that.
After she’s fallen, what will grow in her shadow?
I emerge from the darkness of the forest. A stranger asks “where did you start?” I reflexively answer, “at the beginning”. After all, searchers and dreamers always begin there.
Desert Dweller 