quick the leaves are everything, and falling birds are everything else. If time was the wind, hours would pass in moments, and the passing would someday end. But upon the branches that glisten, and speak to the leaves that have fallen, like speaking with moment's passing, lines of knotted time, round but uncounted like circles, have no end but have a beginning. The knot in the tree is a hitch hikers thumb. I am too young to look back as often as I do. Searching for the answer and knowing for every missed answer cat calls a stronger riddle to swallow than the first or third.
Upon this thought and others seeping into my peripherals, I run out of gas and begin to walk , unemployed and somehow working harder than any day before. I walk to a tool shed looking for a plastic jug, but walk back up the hill empty handed. I need to carry water more often I think to myself, even plain water for in times like these, even the clearest on a warm day would get me further than with gasoline. A walk to a small town that stands in the similar ways all small towns do. The court house with a new roof, the bricks, some painted some red and worn, the theatre with cursive letters, and the law offices in a row. Knuckles around a fist. The grass is green and the air is spring, and there is no thought of going home, but I do by the help of a stranger who asks only questions and I am happy to answer all of them, and he gives an answer and I listen but in a different way as if his routine is my own and that I run out of gas at the corner of every town to feel useful and to find occupation.
