Out into the misty morning, early, with the dogs, I am thinking about departure. I pick up my walking sticks and realize I must leave them behind, and that I will miss them. The day of packing ahead. The river is blanketed in a thick mist: the unknown. I say so long to the river, to the woods, to the dogs in a long ramble under the warm yellowing canopy of trees. As I complete my walk, I decide to circle around the trail on our property, to round to the river one more time. By now I’m listening to the news, and oh, there is so much news to listen to today that is compelling. And I come to the place on the river where we built the arch, and suddenly, I remember that yesterday on my walk I told myself that I should pass through the arch at the end of my walk today as part of my beginning of this ritual, this journey. So, I set my walking sticks down on the moss. And step through the arch with awareness of my intentions. I am quiet on the other side for a moment or two, just listening to myself. Listening, paying attention to what rises to the surface from intuition. There is so much that I know that I don’t realize I know because I haven’t been quiet enough to hear myself KNOW. I want to reach deeply into that mysterious place where the poems I didn’t know I knew are wild and asking to be formed. – Then, it’s time to go, and I turn, feeling empty handed, and start to go back for my sticks on the other side of the arch. But, I have already passed through, begun my journey. The sticks remain where I leave them. It’s a day of organization, packing, details, paperwork. My married daughter (!) comes, says goodbye, she will help with the dogs. paperwork. I leave very early. Before the sun of the new day.