#deer paths

This is where I belong. Among these towering pine and fir trees, where the forest floor is full of moss, bilberry and lingonberry shrubs. Where deer paths lead you to places you haven't yet discovered, even after most paths become familiar.

Paths of desire.

That’s the real name for these things that we walk across,

Roads that aren’t roads, carved out by many feet.

I call them paths of volition, though that’s wrong,

And the word echoes in my head.

Volition. Vol. it. ion. Part of it means to fly,

Though not in my language, and my feet

Fly along the paths that aren’t meant to be.

Deer trails, snaking their way around the hills,

Following the food or the water or something else

That we can’t see and they can’t miss.

I follow them, twist and turn, around the hill,

Up and down and up and down, until

I find myself in a little field.

The path has ended, and I am stranded.

The wind rattles the grass,

and the snakes rattle their tails,

and the cicadas chirp chirp chirp in the heat.

The frequency of their chirping would tell me

How hot it is, but I don’t really need to know.

Fucking hot.

Fucking dry.

The sun beats down on the pale hills,

Gold gold gold and so goddamn dry,

Grass dying and drying as soon as it grows.

(Not this year. This year it’s green,

And the river is high, and the thing

That is dying

Is us, drying out our world,

A raisin in the sun).

But this is the world I dream,

Smell the sage, feel the heat,

And it is as golden and as dry as ever:

Only the cactuses can live here,

Fat and plump as ever,

And don’t roll down the hill, kids, ‘cause it’ll hurt.

I move through the field,

Carving my own path of desire.

The grass crunches under my feet,

Scratches my hands as it rises up around me.

Path of desire.

Deer path.

Path of volition.

That last one is mine.