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Thursday, August 11, 2011

of mules and men

Continuing along, again and again, the same dusty route through the Arroyo, the distances and exact details varying only somewhat, sometimes only to the top of the rise, sometimes through to the mountains. Each pathway has its rut, its groove, its channel, invisible to the eye but there in the geography of place and mind, slowly, steadily etched in from the experience of repetition, each foot placement still existing. The body remembers the route, digs in, knows how to solve the step patterns through the rocky places, where to coast and where to charge, how to turn off the mind, get through fatigue and dehydration, how to keep going, to work. It could keep going, could go double but for a deal made, a distance, a turn-around. After the turn it’s all reeled back, slowly, calculated, until home is sensed, it’s right up ahead, nothing left to save, legs unchecked, speed carries us home, back home to rest, to be done. But still a glint for the soul.

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