I walked

I walked. I breathed every breath out, out. I forced, I found a suitable clod of dirt, held it in my fist, rough, that it wouldn’t crumble in my grip, Swung back every muscle, its weight, my clod of dirt rushed in an arc thrown hard forward in the darkness, into the field, I know to be the field of dirt, the clod of dirt, thrown in a distant arc, visible for a moment, a dot fallen, broken on some distant spot. I remembered then throwing rocks over the Eel River with my father and brother throwing for the most distant splash. I had found a smooth stone. I had found a stone that fit my fist. I had found a good stone, and with all my body swung its weight to pull my arm and let it go disappearing in a distant arc until a clunk of rock on rocks like a gunpowder shot, a gray dust across the water. I found a suitable clod of dirt, I said. I threw it. It being my object, it being a force that would break glass or break itself. It being my strength was my intention, my intention. I didn’t think. Afterwards, I kicked a post, the post, solid and upright in the parking lot. I kicked the post, I felt the post move, soften, with the force of my kick. My fond past ending would be the bending into itself, the path, and it a conclusion of itself. I walked across the field toward home.

October 1971