Grip

I feel there is a great wind sweeping off of the ocean, pushing inland, and that if I’m not careful, I will get sucked into its tow, redeposited far from my homeland.

I feel places calling to me from across the world, leading me eastward – and I hunker down, clinging to grip of a pick ax thrust into the ground, letting hunger’s currents flow through me.

I must remain free to decide where to go, and nothing as yet presents clear and viable.