Walking

The lichen at my feet still reminds me of coral; it’s soft to the touch and malleable like a damp sponge.  I often stick to the beaten path, one maintained by yours truly, so as not to disrupt the moss and tundra tea.  But temptation lures me aside, manifested by the soft hum of 60 degrees and the sounds of determination from the creek below.  Thoreau speaks of walking; it is here I finally listened.

I’m not so much surveying the landscape as I am engraining this moment in my very being.  If, upon my imminent return, one throws a quick glance coupled with a passing comment, “You seem different,” I’ll surely be flooded with the remembrance of silent serenity where one’s thoughts are absorbed and lost in the vast tundra.  “I am different.”