Like some monk, I pull the hood over
my head, the top of it above my eyes
obscuring and focusing my vision.
I say no prayers except the ones
of my presence, hearing and seeing
answer enough for me.
I pass unnoticed, unseen appearing
occasionally at the right place at
the right time, hear, “Thank you”
and disappear the way a wild
animal does – that step not quite
believable like a magician’s trick.
I like it best this way. The way
of the crossroad, the intersection
of time and place and need,
the call of “Wait, please” an echo.
No-one able to see where
I’m going not even me.
-Byron Hoot
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