The older I grow the more I talk as if

miles from home, where my stories are fresh - brilliant -

for the distance.

The slower I move the faster my base to

the earth, arching more earth

than I did in my youth

when I vaulted hills, single.

The deeper my thoughts the less they resound

with the linked dance of conversation;

rising now, and settling,

like whales up for air.

And my story-less dreams travel little

these days. Hung in dumb ether, blue people

randomly bob and nod; musing, it seems,

on the fate of gray whales.