Street, Emily Kennedy
I imagine my beginning on the precipice of a fine land. Lines stretching to the horizon and paralleling its expanse. A tartan of social synapse waiting to be walked, talked, navigated. Baby steps do little to discover the distance. Growing taller, reaching farther. Landmarks, marked. First home, second, and third. Connections slipping by. Fourth, fifth, sixth. Quickly. Barely eleven and tread twenty walks of life. Seventh, eighth, ninth. Arriving two feet from the starting point. Seeing little left of the new horizon. All small, familiar. Lines run together and cancel each other out. Over land and water, through dinge, dirt. Low terrain taken lower with each foot fall. Spiral, split. Sever the path. Trace a name in the sand. Turn around, trample it down.