Resting on a lichen-colonized hunk of basalt on a steeply bouldered slope
Peering west toward the laccoliths once again, the common complaint
That we can't time travel at will seemed a bit churlish to me.
That we travel at all, we time travel, and here my body and its inhabitants,
Its pronomial and hand-me-down memories, seemed to be, returned
As well as magically to a cliff I'd hadn't glimpsed in oh, say, ten or so weeks.
That we come into being, that we must cease to be, it was all time travel to me.
The sunlight slowly burned my skin, transforming the balanced suite of me.
The gambel oaks had shed their leaves. Pines and prickly pear
Danced dull green pavanes less obviously. A fly inspected my recently arrived
But amazingly ancient feet. A great collection of crumbling-becoming
Time machines lay heaped to the horizon, some of them me and some everything.
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