If you walk long enough on this trail,
in the hilly portion a clear cold spring runs artesian
out of the rich dark earth, like a wound or conscience.
In the heart of summer water runs low
though freely and still reaches the harbor.
As I walk, I like the openness,
this sky, so sweeping and direct.
I am thinking about bird calls
and the silence more, I think of yonder.
The flourishing of one day’s singular existence
at a time, even for a few hours.
I am ready for rewilding.
But it is hard not to imagine something else
pressing from the outskirts.
It is a mystery to me how beauty is easily devoured
as if it were abandoned property
only subject to selfishness, paved over for traffic
that has the windows and nerves shaking.
So much must be conceded: that precludes life!
I learned long ago, what I say is not important,
yet there remains a lasting echo in my heart
calling me home. Like the tortoise, at best.
Stephen Cipot
Garden City Park