Bent sticks propel me beyond the crest.
Atop, the horizon in the distance. A well worn path snakes down the other side, back and forth, like a rope tossed from above, by some drunken architect.
To one side, a bench with a dissecting view, beckons me to linger. Creaky knees relinquish their burden. To my right the past, and the unknown over the other shoulder.
An intersection in time. Glinting sun dogs obscure the view both ways, warping both memories and dreams. Unlike Jacob, there is no ladder; no opponent to wrestle, no wrenched hip for a souvenir.
And yet, there is blessing, found upon that bench.
A tattered map unfolds before me, no clear direction indicated other than perspective. Perhaps enough.
Wooden slats gnaw at my back, protesting knees once again bare a familiar burden. Onwards I journey while there is still light.