walking in the woods this morning. i scuffle my feet along the edge of our property on mine road. at the top of a small hill and i decide to walk up the ridge that marks one side of the strafford valley. the back of my legs stretch and my haunches hot, thoughts of breakfast trouble me, i continue to climb.

the leaves are wet this morning, it rained last night.

the path i find is crossed by broken trees. mossy bits line the sides of an old logging trail. i don’t think much up, upon a clearing with a twisted tree i begin to see.

a hunter has been here before, he nailed a platform up to sit in and kill deer.  i think of blazing a trail up here, but the neighbors are typically unwilling to let a trail through their hunting grounds. i think of hip hop instead, a rock, a mossy twist log. watch for the garter snake.

not wanting to pause long at the top, i descend along the south (?) face of the mountain. andy goldsworthy writes of the using north as a force, i am looking for my directions. i walk to the conifer line and follow it. a house appears through the sticks, i wont let them see me.

a clearing – i can see the whole lower village from here, a white town hall. the fields are like a shaved cat, i remember that people here before us.

where i came from – the cluttered sticks remind me of midtown, that tumbling stomach, the brown and florescent  close to my face.

i come home and make oatmeal.