It's misty and damp, but not raining. The mountains hold the fog and rather than go up I stay low, rolling where the streets and sidewalks shine in grey light. I could say I have nowhere I need to go but because of odd rules I've imposed on myself, I need to go somewhere.
I turn from street to path to trail and onto the wooden path across the swampland, the drainage less defined than the creek. Water seeps and soaks here and life is thick and tangled. On warmer days there would be a buzz of insects, a croaking of frogs, a chirping of birds, but this morning it is cool and quiet as moss.
I think about being a plant, rooted for a lifetime in a single spot. I wonder if insects think their lives are brief. I think how water flows, slow or fast, down as it accumulates, up as it evaporates.
I think about how I accumulate inertia until it becomes a critical mass that must manifest itself in momentum, how motion rolls me until I find someplace else to rest.
I do not linger long here, but the stop this morning is long enough.
Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA
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