I walk on an interwoven fabric
of Rock and Root
Feather and Bone
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
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.
At all costs.
This classic conflicts of man versus nature and man versus man runs through me but the narrative has changed.
I bleed on Self.
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