open palms

 Thick fog settles over my mind

    ...settles on barren roads

       ...I only see three feet ahead

At the moment, I plan and plan

but maps are useless with no directions

There is the boulder again

I attempt to climb and slip

Falling to only crawl around 

Finding I am where I started

...still I move

I'm sure I've passed this tree before

its sycamore bark flakes to touch

and falls at my worn feet

...revealing white

the fog clears above my head

and, for a moment, rays above smother me

straining my postured neck to blind my eyes searching above me

it is too bright to see

I hear feathered chirps ahead near a creek

Water current trickles over and through bed stones.

I can't seem to reach...

The fog settles again.