Went into the forest with a hound, along an autumn stream made of equal parts —time and water-- in a hemlock-lined ravine that eons struggled wondrously to carve from these tall hills. In a place where past and future hold no meaning. In this place where even the present holds no sway, unakin to this singular oneness. There, imprinted in mud, tracks of a ringtail, searching the night before for shiners and crayfish. Here, etched in stone, the randomness of erosion, or the fossilized remains of a barefoot woman, who'd walked this stream sometime in a distant future? The latter, one would think . . . For she’s here, her voice carried in the creek’s gurgle and pop, in an undecipherable language that each-everyone understands. We’re on opposite sides of the stream now, the hound and I, looking at the other across lazy rapids—a bifurcation of sanity and not-so-much. And who’s to say which side is which? Went into the forest with a hound —timewalkers, we-- on a sunny fall day.
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