The Myth of Solitude
Hiking boots have rubbed sores
on both ankles, through thick sox
Shift the pack, sit on a log beside an alpine lake
take off the old boots from years back
from what might or might not be
the feet you started with
it’s hard to see, but you’re still there
and not. Being is confused, or you are.
Solitary as Thoreau at Walden
while his mother did his laundry
even in a crowd no one knows
what you’re thinking
seeing, hearing, tasting
in its mind-wrap
yet the lake, trees, the soft waves
wind-persuaded lapping at nearby logs
the high bare ridge above the trees
on the other side of the lake
stubborn weeds poking through
pine needles covering the forest floor
share what you’re thinking, sensing
without the wrappers
seeing nothing
with its stable little ‘n’
The Dog Star 
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