Flea Market snowshoes had been my last hope. And, I knew well enough, falling up would be easier to achieve than down.
Both being a natural achievement that comes with little sound.
Still! There had been an organic urge.
The kind set within a pit. Lit up. Flamed and encouraged.
All of the elements wound itself…in a curiosity, I would not purge.
I began to walk upon frozen picnic tables, brutish mountain waters.
And, varying unearthly objects of a similar kind.
Nothing more than…raw, risky behavior by design.
My small town photographed in the mind.
