What do you write when your heart is like this?  I feel a tenacity at the very pit of me.  I walk over three miles, over three miles, over three miles and even in the balmy night of upstate summer, a long slow walk walking walking walking.  I see at least two dozen crows circling over the high drumlin.  And a deer at the edge of the road.  I don’t even notice how many steps my feet have taken, I notice the steady sheen of sweat, first in my elbows and the backs of my knees.  It feels good this.  Now that the dog’s stitches are out something more strenuous is in order, but these long but flat walks have been good for me.  Lost in thought.  If I were a corsair, I would revel in the long sail on the sea, I would revel in the horse latitudes, and I would fly a black flag high up on my mast.   When I sleep in the long hot night I sleep deep and do not dream.  How dare I dream?  How dare I have this long feeling inside me, like a crystal, clear but unbroken.  I feel faith creeping in though it has no right.  It is hard to find a dingy to be an acceptable boat when you have been given a hand up to one so fine.  I will revel in this sun and salted water, I will delight in the wind in my hair.  I cannot speak.  I am silenced with the soft tendril vine of it.  Wrapping so gently at my feet, twining so soothingly around my ankle.  I feel I must be alone in this.  And I am satisfied somehow with knowing, even if I am it is all good.  I will walk to build this tensile strength, that stretches and has yet to break.


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