My desk is old-school with a hinged top, an inkwell and a carved trough to prevent pens from rolling onto the floor. Just like birds, my desk migrates. The route is modest; every spring to the screened-in porch, every fall back to the kitchen. This year I flipped up the lid and noted the dates of migration, as well as the persistence of the pandemic.
As soon as the trees lay down their leaves and scatter walnuts to the restless squirrels below, I will be able to lean forward, look right, and see the escarpment. This ridge of dolomite, and my hikes along it, have shaped me in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
this wild
ribbon weaves
through outer/inner
terrain
upshot? resilience