In the evenings I go for a walk out in the woods to look for my comfortable space. It is never there. But I walk and find bugs and hard stones and nice sticks to kick. It is all very time consuming and fills up the evening with a sound and a sight of outside emptiness. Which is better than the indoor kind. Any great bird will agree. The sky is a much wider and brighter cage but it is still a cage.

On the ground there is foil and debris and strips of color that drop off the other people. Some are pointed and crisp rolling in the light but in time they will all dull. I try to leave nothing behind. Here I come and go and never was I there I hope. It could be a key. To partake but not disturb. To close your eyes and see. The buzz and hum of flies and water are all around.

The swirl and scent of wind and weed pass over and under the mass of black rock that I sit upon now. The top surface is soft dimples and pocks. On the sides are deep finger fitting splits and at the base grit is scooped into its cracks. I can hear it. The hammering thump of when it was dropped. Fallen and forgotten. Left in the dirt and darkness. No matter how far it traveled, rolled, shook in the past. No matter what it affected, pushed or swayed. It has dropped. It is embedded. To be sat upon and stepped on. To be broken and finally buried.