As William Worthsworth "conflate(d) walking as a fine art with cross-country walking," I was
surprised when I passed him this morning on the canyon's trail, sitting on a bench, bent over
a notepad, pen in hand; for he "employ(ed) his legs as an instrument of philosophy."
Philosophers "know where the benches are," so I sat too.

As the mountains brushed a thin mist off our shoulders, the rhythms of the moon weave together
harmonies, symmetries, analogies and participations which make up an endless ‘fabric,’ a net of
invisible threads, which binds together at once mankind, rain, vegetation, fertility, health, animals,
death, regeneration, after-life, and
hungry bugs held off by oils of peppermint, rosemary and clove,
I stood and bowed to the poet's ghost, walked to "a host of golden daffodils," then circled back
to where I'd been before.