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