Trio No. 13
1.
Tread lightly in woods and do not speak, lest your humanity be exposed.
2.
Yesterday's web is left without a thought,
And sometimes even this morning's.
This is a lesson rarely taught
And never in schools, though its value is great:
Abandon all that the sun has set upon,
And each day, each dawn, rebuild anew.
3.
A list of objects and compound objects:
A bicycle grip.
The gravel under my tires, which gives way as I ascend a steep hill.
The blood beating at my temples from within.
The rushes that hide my bicycle from view.
The first branch that whips my face.
The moss that tears loose under my foot.
The blood that smears my shin under my pant leg.
Three translucent white stalks, neither plant nor fungus, which are rumored to cause hallucinations.
The fallen tree trunk over which I clamor.
The water of the lake as it first comes into view.
The nail that secures the shingle on the board that serves as a footbridge over the swampy dip in the trail.
The new trail markers, too civilized.
Bear scat on an old dock, which may cave under my weight.
The fallen tree trunk over which I clamor.
My shoes, soaked through.
My shoes, removed.
Tiny crawfish that nibble at my feet in the water.
A too-small fish that trails my lure with ambivalence.
Dozens of fish, who are too hot and not at all hungry.
My socks, which did not seem to dry at all.
A house, which I give wide berth.
The dense underbrush I encounter while giving a house wide berth.
Blackberries, ripe on the vine.
The fallen tree trunk over which I clamor.
Bread, cheese, and sausage, eaten on foot.
Icy water blossoming up through black sand — a natural spring.
The green bottle I fill.
Paint on tree trunks. Red, yellow, and blue.
A rusty beer can, which I also saw three years ago.
The last branch that whips my face.
The wind that cools my body as I coast down the hill into town.
Tread lightly in woods and do not speak, lest your humanity be exposed.
2.
Yesterday's web is left without a thought,
And sometimes even this morning's.
This is a lesson rarely taught
And never in schools, though its value is great:
Abandon all that the sun has set upon,
And each day, each dawn, rebuild anew.
3.
A list of objects and compound objects:
A bicycle grip.
The gravel under my tires, which gives way as I ascend a steep hill.
The blood beating at my temples from within.
The rushes that hide my bicycle from view.
The first branch that whips my face.
The moss that tears loose under my foot.
The blood that smears my shin under my pant leg.
Three translucent white stalks, neither plant nor fungus, which are rumored to cause hallucinations.
The fallen tree trunk over which I clamor.
The water of the lake as it first comes into view.
The nail that secures the shingle on the board that serves as a footbridge over the swampy dip in the trail.
The new trail markers, too civilized.
Bear scat on an old dock, which may cave under my weight.
The fallen tree trunk over which I clamor.
My shoes, soaked through.
My shoes, removed.
Tiny crawfish that nibble at my feet in the water.
A too-small fish that trails my lure with ambivalence.
Dozens of fish, who are too hot and not at all hungry.
My socks, which did not seem to dry at all.
A house, which I give wide berth.
The dense underbrush I encounter while giving a house wide berth.
Blackberries, ripe on the vine.
The fallen tree trunk over which I clamor.
Bread, cheese, and sausage, eaten on foot.
Icy water blossoming up through black sand — a natural spring.
The green bottle I fill.
Paint on tree trunks. Red, yellow, and blue.
A rusty beer can, which I also saw three years ago.
The last branch that whips my face.
The wind that cools my body as I coast down the hill into town.
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