an irony in travel
to get to where the sky is big enough to swallow you,
to where the land is grand enough
to let you hear the absence of the nattering
we usually surround ourselves with,
to get out West,
we fly in planes
so that in terminals and in fuselages
we are pressed together
and it’s hard to know where each of us stops or starts,
we have to pass the test of claustrophobia
so that our souls can be alone in immensities,
immensities that can open us up into knowing who we are
deep below our networking surface,
after we’ve survived the cauldron
of all the others who are us, too,
and whose worlds can swallow us,
it’s time for sky and mountain,
for the world to center around a flower, an animal,
an other who can help us know ourselves anew.
by Henry H. Walker
July 2, ’17
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