We know enough of our
own history by now
to be aware that people exploit what they have
merely concluded to be of value,
but they defend what they love.
To
defend what we love
we need a particularizing language,
for we love
what we particularly know.
Wendell Berry,
Life Is a Miracle:
An Essay
Against Modern Superstition, 2000
I
Tuco returns to the wilderness.
The town trip was long enough
to stretch his imagination
into knots.
He knows cityscapes with walls of buildings
blocking the horizon.
And of forests doing the same.
A tree is interesting
while an army of them is,
well, an army blocking the horizon.
He's seen pictures of mountains doing that too.
But his experience is desert bound
where mountains form Sky Islands.
The desert spreads, like a sea
around these islands
that climb
but leave
large gaps
for the horizon
to be seen.
Not watched,
not noticed,
just felt.
The particular
is loved
in this expanse
of
possibility.
It may be when we no
longer know what to do,
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.
II
The horse felt the reins go slack.
She did not bolt
or hasten
or stop.
The pace remained steady
but the path
became
her own work.
She knew this mood
even though it was
too complex
to know its depth.
Tuco scanned horizon
and admired the play of shadow
and light
caused by the sun
and clouds
dancing.
Soon the dance would quicken
as the storm formed.
Meanwhile, the wind kicked up
slightly.
No hint yet
of the race
of wind, dust
and the hint of flowers
reaching out
for a drink.
Patience
and trust
take no knowing.
The journey
goes
as it goes.
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