By Michael Kulp
He ascended a stony trail,
That led up a modest mountain.
The Beltane air was just right for
Old shorts and nothing else.
His bare feet were at last unfettered,
Paroled from their winter prison.
The north breeze, coming from the
Ancient direction of wisdom,
Kissed his sweaty brow.
The birds paused their gossip
And regarded him closely, sensing
An oddness in this No-fly-headfeathers
(Which is their name for us).
His fellows thought him crazy,
Hiking up without shoes.
But he knew a deep truth of
The ancients who had climbed before.
He did not seek the mountain’s top.
He sought instead the primitive
Awareness that easily pushes aside the
Thin veneer of self-inflicted domestication,
The clarity of now that can be found
In no other way than by walking
Your bare feet across warm rocks.