On the path I climb,
Head down, lost in thought,
Instead of in the moment
With my head up looking around.
It is a rooted path,
Damp in spots from yesterday’s rain,
Meandering up and around trees in a forest
And through foliage.
But travel to new places can seem surrealistic.
At least to me.
I am wondering how I know with certainty that
I am on a rooted path,
Damp in spots from yesterday’s rain,
Meandering up and around trees in a forest
And through foliage.
I decide that I cannot know for sure.
My observations are tainted
By my prejudice.
I enjoy travel.
I enjoy the Swiss Alps.
I enjoy walking through the forest.
I will assume I am correct that
I am walking on this path through the forest
Until it is falsified.
Perhaps I will wake up from a dream,
Or turn a corner and see a dragon.
Then I will know something is amiss.
Or be shown that I am wandering
In a large, enclosed botanical garden,
Or am in a computer hologram of sorts,
Or maybe even in someone else’s dream.
Until then,
I will believe I am walking in a forest,
Up in the hills near Zürich,
Minding I don’t step in that puddle just ahead.