Pinkish wood of splintered railing split by a tree, itself lopped by an axe, I cross the bridge walking as fast as my heart pumps, climbing the first hill all theism is idolatry, since expression signifies it, thereby freezing it; except if, somehow, its discourse refutes itself and so the creek drops into its frosty bed. For the first time in years the path is covered with snow, footprints everywhere, some of them human, I trip on a hidden stone. There's always slippage, I think, as a runner passes, intent on his every step.

   Soft fall, nothing broken inside.
   Notebook's wet, however,
   ballpoint pen's pushed
        
          to its limit.

Sasquatch smiles, and throws a snow ball at nothing at all.

It's like the old days, when the river could hold my weight.

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