Tall grasses matted down

Into creekside cushions,

Cross-legged, I sit in hopes of rest

With a weariness that doesn’t translate.

There is a new world beneath me,

Shaded reprieve of minuscule passageways,

Canyons

I do not know how far a beetle scurries

Each hour, each day.

Condors drift lifetimes in flight

I spend years in search of quiet spots

Places unconcerned with footsteps.