As my thoughts wander through "a scene made-up by the mind,"
sometimes I see a rock as a brain hardened into a single thought,
and creation not as an event, but a new way of being after the old
ways have disappeared, leaving a tawny coat of algae blanketing
a loopng adamant host.

Creation is not a moment, but a measure
of how worlds are thought into being.

At the entrance to the National Forest, a sign is glued to a post:

PLEASE USE GATE

[There is no gate. It's an inside joke.]