Our Paths

I trudge down the plowed, rain-soaked path:
Tinkering with reality

Curling my toes in the mud beneath me:
The dirt trolls,
Smelling of midnight: Ash and motor oil.
Meticulously scrub their stubby hands
To purify them of their filth.
Glancing only at their own blurring shadows.

Hearing the silence of the woods creaking:
The gray people,
Sitting still in the wooden rocking chairs
With sunken eyes and coffee-breath.
Frozen in their aluminum-sided homes,
Wishing for the hollow wind to cease.

Looking at the grand, yet solitary sky:
The white-tailed hawk,
Swimming alone in the fresh horizon.
Zealous eyes scanning the blank landscapes,
Witnessing all from her height;
Never touching earth or cloud.

Wondering where this path will leave me.