Lately I've walked the road not old or right. It has confused the coward sense. It is neither me from 1990 versus 2019. It has defined nerve endings. They have blood, purple smiles and angled toward the devil. We are friends in nowhere. And I hate the company.
DEVIL'S GATE, CALIFORNIA
A year after our ascent to Sawtooth Ridge we made some journey North and always it was the summit that grind gears south of sanctity to a place I needled. A place froth of women in lace. Men I fought on the Western Front. And family lost along the line. Worry eclipse and rebound on pine trees at this altitude. And I always rescind. The valley is simple in example. Special yet supple. Canyon wall, ridge line, hollow pine, snow. We can expect nothing significant if we have blind eyes to it's definition. This stretch of the 395 is particularly hopeful to an almost lonesome soul. We wander. We hang on nothing. And the road has every answer. -RW