(no subject)

Women in water, mountains in men.

Follow the invisible intangible inaudible ball.

The bounce of which is the happiest path - a path for you alone.

But we do touch it. Or touch where it's been, feel that it's been.

We suspect and surely are right to that if we find the right speed and direction...

A point will be passed when our push and sweat will be stilled by hands.

A point passed after which we're pulled.

Like a lace through an eye in a buried boot.

The beautiful one will lead us along above the river.

The sigh of a search party saved by the children it sought.

We see it in rapids, in wave troughs, in stirs in the canopy.

How the ball surrenders to the game.

Seeing in each glove another home.

Sometimes the best way to find it's to look for the people.

Acting funny and looking at funny things funny.

Stooping, consulting, assessing the sky.

For you alone but you see how they feel it too.

All of the balls were released the same evening.

The same machine.

So many.

All these years later and almost each bounce is off ball.