Humidity on the mountain path keeps me unsatisfied. Humping through limitless colonnades of proud pine and Sherman oak where every step is an entrance through grandeur and an exit to exile has left me with no place to go. No light knifes beneath a doorway to egg me on. I have been everywhere. I have been everything. I have been a chameleon on a leaf, adapting to every dapple. I have been the red squirrel with tufted ears, head-down on a holly trunk, laughing at mankind. I have been the stealthy snail in circuit around this rock, lapping it languidly in a one-footed race as day and night flicker past. I have been the erratic beetle with wings all colors, the mushroom domed in shade, a dewdrop evanescent and airborne, the shaggy hawk, the moony owl, mouse and hare and all else.
Now I am simply Moses 39 years in.
And then, unable to see any doorway, I am thrown through. With new suddenness, like the discovery of oceans when we are three, I break into a world of soft meadows, a private dell vast in variable greeneries lighter than an Irish iris.