My hand moves.
A thread tugs my frontal lobes.
At the other end,
my ancient brain blazes a light
like a Christmas star
across those hills barely seen.
Maybe the thread spans a river,
vast and microscopic at the same time,
forever and now.
The nature of things
gifts me with joy,
but clogs me with arrogance
so that I am in constant flux,
a cartoon on each shoulder,
each negotiating a place to go.
Gravity will force a flow
that drains the flood plain and
lets my hand move.
(pen: en.wikipedia.org; dog: writetodone.com)