cien palabras

28.

Down 281 and out 90, a quicker way to the west of my youth. Crossing a random lane, I felt as if I had shifted: broke free from a map wedged deep inside, mostly hidden, mostly unbidden, far from memory and intention, but so deeply embedded as to hold me, if not willing prisoner, at least wary traveler.

Those streets are gone: where they lead are gone: who I would have been is gone.

It was not loss I felt, not mourning: it was freedom, lighting out for the territories.

White moon over a bank of cloud: blue sky calling.