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.