I walk on an interwoven fabric
of Rock and Root
Feather and Bone
and
Blood.
My blood.
The cut on my finger bleeds; it bleeds a lot. I cannot
find a bandage and blood is everywhere. It drips
on my bare legs, my pack and on the ground
littered with Arbutus skin and leaves—
Arbutus blood, my blood, co-mingling
with all that came
before:
the worm, the
bird,
the cougar, the
human. Me.
The top
of the apex in this blood-letting land: hikers, hunters, loggers and
soldiers: hewers of wood, drawers of water, consumers and usurers, the naïve
and the cunning, eliminating, throwing away or killing what doesn’t belong in
our pyramid of beliefs, a philosophy of conquest and winning.
Survival.
At all costs.
This classic conflicts of man versus nature and man versus man runs
through me but the narrative has changed.
I bleed.
I bleed on Self.
If you like this blog,
please "like" my FaceBook
page and get notices on your timeline when a new article or poem is posted.
You can also "follow me" by signing up on the right side of this page
and get new posts automatically in your inbox.
