Walk On By

The crunch of grit fills the soles of your shoes with tiny earthquake sounds and avalanches. (The grit settles from the busyness of goings-on, from urban madness to rural quietude.) Grit on the ground, sidewalk, or shoulder collects on our boots...magnetizes each step to follow the other. The body swings forward in tune with the blood pumping there. Muscles are up and awake, feeling their oats, knowing aliveness. Joints jive beneath the surface of motion. Up. Lift. Down. Swing. Wind in your hair. Counting stone slates, eyes absorbing passing dandelions, don't step on cracks, scuff, a heel catches a grating, here's some mud. (If you would walk on and on for days and days, you'd be far away, each inch you pass would get to know you and you know it.) Physically touching the planet, noticing it's there, visiting it stroll by stroll, taking it in stride, mobilizing upon it as it sideswipes the universe with its own spinning strut.