Bald Mountain from field in front of chalet at snow bowl. Early evening walk.
When day exhales and earth tosses dusk up slope on scent of coming dew.
As one Arabic saying puts it, nazzala al-asmāʾ min al-samāʾ, “the names descend from Heaven.” (--in, The Presence of Poetry, the Poetry of Presence: Meditations on Arabic Sufi Poetry Performance and Ritual in Contemporary Dakar, by Oludamini Ogunnaike)Names reveal.
The nameless hides itself.
Remaining one-with obscure and hidden lives.
Once I played third base. I wasn't that good. It was something to do until words awoke and whispered me into solitude.
Where I have been for decades.
No longer pulling first baseman into base path of digging runner.