I enter its carefully lined path

neither precise, nor perfect and so it is

circuitous, meandering, purposeful

it beckons without agenda

dusty and worn, my shoes carry the scent of piñon

my slow, methodical steps begin to blend with my breath

left I inhale, right I exhale

thoughts are subdued

the sun rises over the peak, my shadow arrives

is that my step or my breath?

they’ve become indistinguishable

finally, I am home