There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside time.
Milan KunderaNick-nack, paddy-wackthe old folks sit, play cardsin the newly-pavedtrail-head parking lot.One warns of impending rain,but the best time for stillnessis when no one else enters,so I head up the damp trail
through moist woods, the brook rushes strongly, birds chatter freely.
Drizzle cools all at the lake,
mountain laurels in full bloomtheir aroma fills the paththere is no sky, just thick cloudsjoining with the lake’s water.The sun breaks through and hatches of newborn insects appear. Tired when I hike out again
the old folks still play cards onpavement, I’m not there yet, butthis old man keeps rolling home.
