Carried by a weaker wind,

feeling what we feel right now,

with or without our bare feet or or anything else.

unarmed, unbent .

We’ve seen all the best catches,

we’ve felt the wind the winds at our back.

This isn’t a song; it never was.

nothing will have been remastered ,

it wont have to be,

if you’ll just trust me.

If I’ll trust myself and my finger’s

but not my footprints.

They have already wandered to a different window, a different plane.

A different pasture

A different valley, with those very same feet.

That very same spacing.

that very same contest.

uncanny, and piecing . captivating. spellbinding.

Drowning in the aquifer now, slipping through the crevices ( crevici?)

but its cold and lucid , and it still was back then, too.

on that picnic bench, beach.

after that drive, It always was.

It still was back then , too.