Smoke Signals.

Today I bushwhacked through a wood and attempted to make a fire while it rained. Smart. During it all, I made a haiku at one point in time. I love being outside.

Have you ever gotten to that point where thought was no longer necessary and didn't matter? This is the best part of being outside. Quiet is not a factor. Quiet is in constant existence, and trees know no difference. It's fantastic.
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Wet bark rests, rain pelts,
red cedar turns deep violet
with saturation.
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Dear one where are we going?
We keep on going,
gravel road.
keep going,
traveling,
going,
fading into dirt roads
into the brush
into dust
to moss
to rust.
We go where we must.

But I can't see a path.
Wait--A bend!
And now I see that
it turns left
to a place
where perhaps a chimney
creates a warm end
for you and I.

Before this is over,
and before I curl up
in my bag and
you in yours,
we must ford rivers
valleys
and many rotting dead things
that smell green
and good.
This is the way.