Traveling Light
When I step foot on the mountain
behind my house, I only ask for
two things: permission and
protection. I do not ask the gods
for money. I ask for help to make do
with less. I’ve learned to travel
light: a paper sack, a buck knife,
and if I stumble across a field
of chanterelles that have fruited,
I make sure to leave some behind
for creatures that I share
the mountain with. Sometimes
I see them foraging too.
Mostly I notice a few crowns
they’ve nibbled on, tiny mounds
and pungent trails of scat.
It’s important not to get caught up
in the attention of the gods.
Little winds leading me on
to a cache or trove are best met
with gratitude. Spiritual guides
who have gathered in my ears
like faint whispers so easy
to have missed—secret networks
of mycelium revealing themselves
after long dry spells. I pay attention
to the clouds, to moist payloads
able to elude unruly
forecasts. Sometimes it’s best
to leave your bug spray at home
and offer up instead
a few drops of your own blood
and let the gods decide.
TIMOTHY LIU's latest book is Down Low and Lowdown: Bedside Bottom-Feeder Blues. Read more.