Soft Summer night.
Stars and open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
Saying:
I could be anyone.
I could start here.

What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays of
conscious aloneness.
Summer is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.

They catch eager forays,
studies in communication;
simple truth hidden in rules,
mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the 
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and whey.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.

Looking up to the night sky for
solace, a soft moment, 
an endless road
to ride along home.

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