What of the Traveler?

Nigh on seven years, and the mossy fern garden is still there, crowded with natives that can be found all over our area; we see them when we’re hiking at Silver Falls, where, season upon season, they live and die for each other in a freedom most of us are afraid to imagine for ourselves. There is not one inch of this earth, if left free of our meddling, that is incapable of such miracles; indeed, every inch is a miracle in itself. And what of the traveler? He, too, is a miracle, for he can die a thousand times even as he lives, in a breath, in a moment, in a kiss. Even this page is a kind of kingdom, sprouting jeweled leaves of its own.

[ 1957 ]