remembering a high school photography teacher
teaching that it doesn't matter
that a similar photo had been done before
what matters is that I have not done it before

with that in mind
I went on a break of day hike
carrying as much concern for originality
as a grasshopper
or Shakespeare

to the top of the Boulder flatirons
approaching from the east
arriving at a rocky cliff
of the same flat sandstone rock
that the flatirons themselves were forged
where a bench had been constructed
from dozens of stone pieces
tucked into the cliff
with still enough distance from civilization
that one could only hear the faintest siren
positioned to receive the mid-morning sun
I accepted the invitation
to recline and relax my eyes
to consider
the collection
of other high school lessons
most of a training to perpetual middle-class non-identity
but occasionally
something worth remembering