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  • The sun hit hot on the field when she went into the sky. Climbing over the straw guardrails, the hand of a lover boosted her up. The woman of many tongues nestled down and tipped her chin to the guide lighting the balloon.
    I am the lover in the field.
    The sky kidnapped and braided and twirled her hair. She leaned into its arms, looked down to me with those hard eyes.
    I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. I do not wear my heart. It is deep inside this field.
    The woman of many tongues stretches her arm toward a division of forest and farm, creek and dirt. Hard eyes land on a softening of soil.
    That is when I began to run. Orb of sunlight slicing onto the stretches of my back. Twigs and brush were many. Knowledge is little except for her line of sight and motion. I am forming to her movement and she to mine.
    Grasping the intentions, the guide lowers the flame, the sticky gas knob trembles in exhaustion. Basket of fire, basket of flame floats downward into the gullied meadow.
    The lover took her hand.
    I take her hand.
    She stood in the divide of man and nature, her being too young to understand, even though we are always too young, too naive, too vapid.
    The woman with the hair, the eyes, and the arms approached me with intensity and precision. Her movements represented a landscape I had only dreamed.
    There are rare moments when all these different threads intersect: desire, calling, intention, and desperate need.

    These threads, a slowly balding drunk once told me, are what draw us into the grace and mercy of life. The thread is passion. He leaned toward me to smile and offer a chest bump. No thank you, I replied, instead giving him a firm pat on the shoulders. Maybe he acted nonsensically, but the moon scalped man understood the great irony of this life. We ought to follow our passions in the moment, follow this grand path which we cannot see or touch. Only by looking back will we ever know if we did right, and the only way to do right is to move forward.

    In the moment I did not know it. I, the man with no home, stood within the harmony of her hair and the earth's grass, her waist and the creek carved field, her eyes and the fertility of the soil. I took a step in that thread. I can only tell you now because I know this step was right and good and worthy by looking back
    This halcyon creek bed now sits near an ancient burial site.
    I am again at the divide. The divide I saw ten years ago, before this fate even found me.
    This divide is no longer what I ought to take and grow and prosper, but what I will understand and commit and finalize. She stands next to me, her august presence allowing me to choose the road.

    The lover knows not which to choose.

    I know not which to choose: obligation or love. I am caught again between desire and reality. Perhaps they will intersect again. The woman of many tongues speaks not this language of fate. I, the man without a home, am finding this place more and more often in my sleep and in my waking.
    The only way to do right is to move forward.
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