saint mary's stretch.

there's a stretch of road i walk nearly every day, and i think i can hear the rush of water beneath this well traveled way. but it's just my imagination, and it's just the stream along the curb, gurgling and spitting and spraying to my feet.

i watch the rocks sway and mutter underneath my feet, against my boots, aching their silver beneath the scuffs of too much tripping and not enough walking. the gravel is near black with rain, washed of its dust and painted midnight gray. and me, i just keep walking.

i pay attention to the movement of the rain and the beat in my head as i write a letter in the handwriting of thoughts to someone who won't ever open the seal, but someone who needs to read what i have scrawled in my head, but someone who needs to tell me how to think. cause i'm wondering why i'm walking saint mary's stretch when shouldn't i be calling on raphael instead?

but someone put me here, and i walk this road each day, kicking stones, silent, and ignoring the sky.