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A Hawk's Cry

I weave in and out of the trees or
circle about them
creating a snowshoe pattern
much like the loop-de-looping path of a fly

sometimes laughing for no reason
sometimes stopping to exchange being-ness with a tree
sometimes enjoying the shooshing of my shoes
a hawk's cry, the cold air on my face.

I recall the straight lines
that started when we first lined up in school
and progressed down hallways
toward the next grade
toward some kind of eventual work
and then to the next promotion
or insight or relationship or accolade

not that destination and accomplishment are bad
but really…. so many straight lines.

Later, contemplating my meandering path
among the trees and over open spaces
I think it is some of my best work.

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