Path

By Dimitrios Otis

I’m standing where sunshine beats down. Glaring. Hot. There must be plants, somewhere. I see concrete surfaces; vehicles roll on them.

People used to walk. What did they call themselves? Strollers, hikers, ramblers, amblers—they even had things called feet. This world of wheels doesn’t do well with bumps. Curbs, rocks, boulders—or chasms to leap.

They said there was a Holy Place, once. You had to climb. We have animals for that—you can see them on videos.

People might have floated there. They might have disappeared. Did we ask where they were going? We can’t follow in a Jeep.