Sometimes the world is just an open plain, and I am a stupid stone buried in centuries of rock-hard mud.
Sometimes a jagged crack in the pavement of a brand-new winding road to no where.
Sometimes a lifted layer of leaves in the vast canopy of a tangled wood, waiting on the air, still and lifeless.
Sometimes an empty silence- the questions on soundless faces.
Sometimes an ocean, while the mind is back and forth like a wave caught on the tide of pulsing throats and dripping, hanging daggers of ice on rooftops.
Sometimes I am parting the hours with smooth, open-handed dancing. The moon as my partner, the open plain as my foothold.