Energeia

the field

A morning fog settles between the tree line and the windbreak. The old blueberry arbor bears neither vine nor fruit. Reedy wildflowers crowd the hillside. It’s hard on bare feet, to walk through the mist and to its edge, among the thistles and needles and stones, and pointless besides: the greater distance lies over these mountains and across the sea, and no closer will I be to her by movement than she to the end, which comes not by footsteps one after another, but by steps of moment, one to the next, next to the following, and so on.

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