There's More Water in the Creek Than I've Ever Seen

• I don't know why we just haven't hiked Seneca Greenway in at least a year we did yesterday yay!

• On the Seneca Ridge Trail, on other side of Seneca than Seneca Greenway
• An excellent loop with Seneca Greenway except that dodging SUVs on 118 a fifth of a mile necessary between Seneca Ridge Trail and Greenway
• Seneca Ridge Trail built by and for mountain bikers as is apparently Schaeffer Farm Park which we haven't hiked in half a dozen years
• So this is a deleted bleggalgaze and deleted tabletgaze (with deleted latest paoretm) (deleted I-don't-know-what-to call-them too) and solely a link carrier, though Seneca Creek was bankful and rushing 
• Seneca Creek, why the hell haven't we been hiking the Greenway, the lower twelve miles from Riffle Ford Road to Seneca Aqueduct, the upper 10 miles from Brink to Woodfield?

• Why are people smearing shit on electric scooters? 
• Imposing control through fire and blood - on Bolivia
• Why the uproar now
• Reminder: Democrats are the enemy
• On Our Sociopath Overlords
• An argument for Warren
• Smarter than mayonnaise
• It will come back to you
• Our National Parks are dying (w me and Earthgirl two years from eligibility for lifetime pass), what our sociopath overlords don't kill with climate change they'll kill by privatizing for profit
• Maggie's weekly links
• Being and Beginning
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links (lotsa RIP Gahan Wilson)
• Yes, I post this too often, it was in my head for all eleven miles of yesterday's hike, especially the uphills

DEAR BOB,

Dean Young

The mountain thinks it’s the same

without you but it’s wrong. Maybe

the same stars whisking themselves

further off, the darker the brighter,

same chamomile crushed underfoot

but the little, wiry dog we loved

has preceded us into paradise, not

that I expect to join her even though

my own crappy heart’s worse, running’s

out but I may be finally learning how

to sit in a chair. I still don’t know

what to call the good morning bird

although whatever word’d be no truer

than manzanita. I think namelessness

has a crush on me, on how clean

I keep my room, the usual stunned

ruckus of wake up. But it’s a different

moon, different woman on the hotel balcony

yet the same kinda scary, vacant stare,

caryatid foreseeing what? Before

turning back to the customary, immaculate

vacation squalor inside. The cash machine

still says “enter to exit” but there’s

more water in the creek than I’ve ever seen,

the brighter the darker, in that first dream

there was none.