Soft Edges

Curves, circles, spirals. Ambling here and there, led by a turkey track, an elk rub, an otter track. No longer a slave to goals and distances.

How many turkeys? That’s not important.

How far did we walk? Who cares?

Did you see the vine hug the tree or the beaver gnaw?

The elk rub was fresh, the little hemlock victim to raging hormones of the bull.

As I drop into inner stillness I find more curves, less straight lines. Soft edges rather than razors where one slip and I am mortally wounded.

Time is non-existent in the place of soft edges Why do tears flow when I feel this truth?