Bob and Weave

Plenty

109 Plenty A trail laced with green needles is silent on a summer afternoon, not counting wind and flies, as if the ridge were a giant bank of time, as if the clock stopped in the last laser-light of a day thickening with visible air. A man like a stone changing to earth stretches out on the scored face of a field and only breathes. A thin early moon in the east turns like a bowl, and what is it pouring into such stillness? The man rises, becoming more than breath again— eyes and ears and dreams. He takes note of an old friend, hunger. Halfway down the switchbacking cirque the air is rich with double-helix clouds of swarming mayflies, cliff swallows taking them in flight. ...