In actual experience, our life is not only plural, but also singular. Each one of us is both dependent and independent.
Acorns click to the driveway like LEGO’s dropping from my neighbor’s pin oak tree. No trespassing I hiss when Theo strays into the adjacent lot.
When walking I discriminate for him the city from the citizen, the right side from the left. Yet he's always getting his shoes on backwards, always tossing footsteps to the private inside of the sidewalk and these rampant squirrels don't mind who pays the mortgage so long as they reap with their sickle incisors a harvest of nuts.
Waterfalls pour into pools
slaking lush garden purlieus;
a gurgling spring
bubbles from the depths
as unlidded sunlight
surmounts the horizon.
Tenting amid intermontane
canyons piques curiosity
concerning the porosity
of columnar basalt and limestone.
Eyes and feet attest to the rigors
and splendors of sparse pastures,
rangelands and croplands,
sylvan hills where trees foliate,
orchards that fructify,
salted deserts for remedy and refuge,
a variegated region by turns
blessedly rainy, accursedly dry,
where there is no such thing
as trackless wilderness.
Latish days subdued by darkness
close with sensuous delights recollected
in the minds of those for whom
wondering engenders wandering.