I am both a walker and a hiker. As a walker, I wander at dawn through city streets and down towards the manicured lawns and concrete bricked pathways of my city’s local lakeside park, but as a hiker, I set off with an unbridled excitement, knowing I’m going to explore a wilder landscape than any that might centre itself around sidewalks or halogen street lamps that flick off just after dawn. As a walker, I don’t really think about whether or not I disturb the environment when I walk, mostly because it’s all a bit static. Everything is about traditional sorts of urban planning and linear thinking when you walk within a town or city. There are potholes in roads, drains that clog up with rottin...
You make a choice, to walk out
onto the frozen crust of a northern lake,
even in what seems to be
the coldest of mid-Januarys.
One night, two weeks ago, in a sudden thaw,
an ice-fishing hut slipped under,
angled, swallowed whole, disappeared.
You must choose to walk with open heart,
mind split wide, hemispheres of brain
emptying themselves onto rough shoreline
because it is not logic or reason that
has you catching your breath, unaware,
startled by such beauty.