You have not even thought of leaving
the path before you hear the music.
Is it a god? Is it magic?
You can’t even tell
if under the melody, idling
and eddying like a slow river,
lurks an insistent beat
Although your body responds
desiring to move toward it.
Later, you might compare it to a swarm
of unknown butterflies:
how you wish to define them
but are immersed in lustre
and shimmer and a kaleidoscope of
flutters and shifting color
so that you focus
not on the individuals but only
on the dance luring them away.
You step off the path
thinking to follow
but they have already eluded you
being of the moment
and you plodding steady
a creature of earth
here in a world of air
where everything that moves
is shadow.
from a series on Teddy Roosevelt and The River of Doubt
