Worthsworth "conflate(d) walking as a fine art with cross-country
walking," I was
I passed him this morning on the canyon's trail,
a bench, bent over
a notepad, pen in hand;
for he "employ(ed)
legs as an instrument
Philosophers "know where the benches are,"
so I sat too.
the mountains brushed a thin mist off our
rhythms of the moon weave together
which make up an endless ‘fabric,’ a net of
threads, which binds
together at once mankind, rain,
after-life, and hungry bugs
held off by oils
I stood and bowed to the poet's ghost,
to "a host of golden
daffodils," then circled
I'd been before.