I am resting the writing self
on this crumpled paper,
thin smudges tucked
between blue horizons,
just another writer walking
and reading the world
almost nearly like a poem —
a turn of phrase
tucked deep into
another marginal mirage —
for thoughts are fleeting
and these feet, in a rush
to get where we’re going,
keep us moving forward

— a response poem to a friend in Kentucky, Terry, who wrote a poem to the query I found at a museum that asked: How is writing a poem like walking through a landscape on a trail?