We're walking as the sun begins
Its morning rise behind the trees
Just past our house
Joe and I,
Pond on our right,
Cars to the left,
Hill path curving
Up and out of sight.
Morning smells,
The call of geese,
The morning voice of robins,
Cars rushing,
Loud and soft and loud.

Our morning walk,
The route we know...
And the routine.

We do not talk, he and I,
Alone in our heads,
He with his man,
I with my dog thoughts.

This path is the path of years,
Slower now,
Still connected with a leather leash,
We stroll convinced of nothing
But the need to walk.

This morning's different, though...
Joe stops halfway up the morning hill,
Houses and our house below...behind,
Says, "Tuck, old boy,
Should we change this time?"
Stoops to look into my eyes,
Unsnaps the leash...
To my surprise.

His smile lets me see
That I am free.
"No need, I think," he says.

I turn and look back
Toward our house,
Think of geese now standing
On the dewy grass,
Observe the sunlight
Glisten on the stand of corn
Beside us,
Remember past enticing smells
Along the way....
A rabbit scent invites me
Off the path to stray....

Joe's moving now,
On up our hill.
I am standing on the path,
A little shocked and still.

A younger dog would run,
But habit's set its track;
Our mutual walk lies up ahead,
So, faithful now, I move
To walk beside my Joe,
Content to travel with a friend,
And let the running go....

Hazy, hazily
He walks
Oн идет.
As if in a dream
In the endless desert sea
Аральское море.
No water, no fishes
Only rusted ships
*Иллюзия.

One foot in front of the other.
Days passed by.
Walking was said to be a spiritual practice which yielded many dividends. The replenishment of the soul and the connection to all around you. Pilgrimage to sacred sites, walking the labyrinth, meditation. Strolling, cavorting, frolicking or wandering. As we stretch our legs, we stretch our minds and souls.
Few philosophers and writers had ever penned the absolute, gut-wrenching torturous boredom of the walk as Ronnie James now experienced it.
Fifty-six bones, one hundred and twelve ligaments and seventy-six muscles of dull, throbbing pain.
Who could tell how long it had been? He had but only the tedious task of counting his steps to judge it by. He'd long ago lost all track.
Sauntering alone through the barren ocean of sand.
Indeed, Thoreau wrote that the word itself, "saunter," may have been derived from “sans terre.”
“Without land or a home,” murmured Ronnie.
With every step we take, we leave some ghost of ourselves behind,
He who sits motionless, watching life pass by through the window, may be the most awful vagrant of them all – but the saunterer is no more vagrant than the meandering river.
Days passed by.

In an attempt to walk the path I had
Beaten bone dry with the
Soles of the sneakers I wore for years 
And years
I was stopped by
Overgrowth and foliage

It used to be mine
But time had claimed it for herself
In an attempt to put me in my place
Daring me to not relish in what
Used to make me who I am

In fighting my way through
The bushes and leaves, I was
Forced to surrender to the
Simple fact:
I have changed.

I stopped living on that
Dirt ground
And sitting on those four rocks
That divided your house and mine
To catch my breath
And decide my next move

The downcast shadows of the trees
Recanted to me the stories of
My former jubilation
And versed me in the
Games I had missed

I traced the stars with my cigarette
To find the meaning they'd hid from me
Since birth dropped me on this rock
To learn all they had to teach

I thought I knew when I
Jumped the puddles in the road
And the cracks in the sidewalk
To avoid broken
 backs and
Accidental swims

Exhaustion on my heels
I began my ascent to the
Canopy, holding the answer to my
Long-drawn inquisition.
Discovery drove me to this new creed:
I am stronger than my scars
Give me credit for.

I understood my dryness in a 
Fit of introspection and
Cold sweats and
Warm shivers,
My sobriety, my closest familiar

So I buttoned down the boxes that
Help me get to sleep
And said a few words about the friend
I used to keep at the
Edge of those woods
Back when growing up seemed easy
And nothing seemed too hard

You stand up and you start walking.
You don't know where you're going.
You're just walking.
Then you run into a wall.
The wall is made of straw.
Well you realize you can just blow it down.
So you do that.
Then you run into a wall made of wood.
So you break through it with your foot.
Then you run into a wall made of stone.
So you pick up a pick axe and start beating at it.
Then you run into a wall made of an unbreakable force.
You have no idea how to get around it.
Once you see it you keep trying to figure out how to get through it.
But you cant figure it out.
But you cant get your mind off of it.
So you sit there until one day you look back,
and see all the progress you've made,
and you decide that you've done enough.