Winter bares the creek line, the skeletons of fallen trees.
Summer hides it all with green.
Don’t forge ahead, trying to take in everything.
Stroll sometimes.
Level ground can fall away unexpectedly.
Wear good shoes, layer clothes. Take enough to drink.
Have tissue with you for tears allowed in thinking.
Carry a stick. Use it for balance. Twirl it to look less
menacing, but hold it like a Jedi on mean-dog streets.
Don’t look up to gauge a distant crest.
Zig zag. It’s a longer walk, but easier success.
Better yet, keep your eye on just the ground
between each step. The path will flatten out.
You can even talk or sing, and that hill will climb itself.
“Things I Learned Walking,” by Patricia Killian Deaton
