There is a crevice, you will hardly notice it, part way up the hill in the forest along the road. That is where I reside, a hidden place. The trees bend low, branches diverge, cross, reach toward the ground, force me to snap and push them out of the way so that from my hammock, creaking back, creaking forth, feet crossed and arms folded, I can catch a glimpse of the sky and the green field that runs up against the wood.
The journeymen pass one by one and I, unseen, unknown, swing eternal inches from sweating, unrestrained humanity. They talk out loud spilling words directed at no one, fingers shaking at invisible selves. They stop, lost, strain for direction in the silence, always keep on. Oh, we are conflicted creatures, this much I have seen.
We are travelers all, but I have stepped off the road for a time. The journey wears on a soul and I prefer the forest canopy, the twinkling of the sun passing through the leaves, the gentle swing of the hammock.
Who is to say that here in my stillness I am unmoving? I expect that tomorrow or in a thousand years the wind will mistake me for nothingness and carry me along on its dash to the finish. And there I will meet up with my companions and end up just the same.
"What if there are really gleaming, castellated cities hung upside down over the desert sand? What limpid lakes and cool date palms have our caravans always passed untried? Until, one by one, by the blindest of leaps, we light on the road to these places, we must stumble in darkness and hunger." ~Annie Dillard
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