At Cully Park
on the cusp of town,
a grassy hill is crowned
with stones placed in a round
pattern, and you can step up on these
stones and peer down a gravel path shaped
like a key, through a circle of tall timber posts that
frame Mt. Hood on the horizon, and you can stand high
on this hill, on these stones, and feel the breath of an ancient
breeze tickle your cheek, and you can sense that you are
communing with a peaceful, spiritual world,
where atoms and molecules flow serenely
by, past to future, and back,
and then, somehow,
you can lose
track of
your
feet and
misstep and tumble
off the stone and land flat
on your cheek in the gravel and smash
your kneecap and bust your phone all to hell
when you put your hands down to break your fall,
abruptly ending your call with your brother
who has just this moment asked
how things are going.
Not so well!