It may be that there is a rather large stone on the horizon, a small black thumbs-up against glazing sun-down purple and orange (those southwestern sunsets never leave you). Perhaps there are runes on what may be a monostone, some message that points to secrets, but about what? The quest would be to cross the space between and check it out. In Alaska, a crew and I seeking a shortcut out from somewhere tore into the thorns and extended our packing time by perhaps a few hours more than necessary. No birds that day, just some odd stomping behind some high trees.
“Make sure you hit him in the chest,” one of my partners said, handing me the rifle brought for protection against grizzly bears. “Just in case. We’re counting on you.”
That’s the way shortcuts workout sometimes. Not always, but sometimes.
Reading this post by Daniel Green got me thinking about the horizon and other metaphors for knowing or wanting to know. Susan Gibb at the moment is all over The Body Artist on her quest. In an unrelated post (maybe), she writes:
Down by the river, trees naked gray their hair fell out with autumn chemotherapy, revival and survival. Leaves in golden curls on grass no longer green. Centuries of mowings, leaves, and people turned to earth.