I realize, halfway up the washed pebbles
Of this slippery slope, that I don't want to go
Back down the way I came. But the wind
Has got me now, no way to change the tack.
Switchback, switchback. Plastic sacks
Lashed to the masts by the fury
Of the mornings storm. I'll churn along
Until the trail surfaces into the sunset,
Hits a road bobbing with commuters,
Tugging at the ropes, and singing
To keep their minds off the pain.
Image: Mine. Sometimes you see evidence of what must be human work on random rocks.
Headline: One of my favorite writers.
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