Enjoy it now, it only gets harder, I think twenty, thirty times a day. The dusty ribbon of dirt I follow winds through dry, prickly plants intent on leaving faint tracks of blood along my shins as I pass by. Fist sized rocks appear, scattered on the trail as if spilled from some impetuous child’s toy box. I climb rugged hilltops while tiny black flying monsters loiter between my sunglasses and face. I picture shade. I manifest ‘downhill.’ But no. The trail brazenly slashes up a cliffside. Perilous switchbacks zigzag toward a horizon determined to leave me burdened, awed, humbled.
*For NewshoundToNovelist new Prompt Pot feature