The Northern Path
Return to the place of divergence.
An unconscious man poured out on the floorboards.
In each conversation, when we speak of travel, he tells of a road in the north.
“At first it seems common… If there are gentle hills, these sidle by like lambs toward a clover. Never a curve ahead.
But the dark earth pulses… ley-lines strung loosely on telephone poles. Sometimes we balance on them and feel ourselves pushed along above the thick, oak branches. When clouds shadow the path, young ivy creeps along its edges.
Dark, square sedans hurtle along the length. Every exit swings on hooks, they rotate on their racks like gates in a pinball machine.
Once your feet have taken a single running step on its surface, once you hurtle forward, once you send the wind retreating to the parcel (still in the hands of careless men), thoughts of flight seem vulgar.”