Rolling Hills

We meet. Do we meet? We’re not quite sure. We’re not sure where our walks cross, we haven’t yet met. We meet by default, both pausing when we’re not quite sure. Standing on a threshold, not quite crossing. Waiting for something to begin. The weight of the stone – and then its momentum, taking us into flight, a never-ending momentum down dale, up hill, down dale, up hill, journeying and circling.

mach stone smaller

We walk. We stop. We pay attention, we notice. We pass by, we overlook. We all look at the same thing (ducks, wind turbines). We each look at a different thing (a stone, a flower, mortar, rusting machinery). We share our breathing with the wind, on the air. We walk reflectively, conversationally, shifting through the group, bringing with us our threads of conversation, jumping over to another, getting entangled in dense briar of a thorny question, stimulatingly stung by nettles of new thought, drawn on by a horizon of possibility and/or dread. We are overtaken by a desire to reach, to reach… a place of circling, returning. We are overtaken by an urge to stay, to rest.

mach sheep smaller

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