* No Knowing

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It is a beautiful sunny November day at Dartmouth.  The last leaves are on the ground. Harvard is in the pool competing with the home teams: women's  and men's.

I  walk outside between the buildings. 

A crow swoops in on the roof between the gym and pool, opens its wings wide to slow and glide to a  stop. 

How does it know?

 Where to go?

 What to do? 

This is a day of sunny glory for a crow. 

There may even be peanuts and popcorn in corners of Memorial Field.

How does it know, this crow, where to go?  There may be heat from the pool on the roof where it treads. 

Does it know  that soon there'll be snow? 

 How does it know?

On the drive over from Vermont on I-91 this morning I saw the long  horizon with hills (small mountains) on either side.

I thought to myself as I gazed at the view:

So effortlessly I steer

and slow

and stay in my lane

and know. 

Where I'm going, for instance. I know.

When I shut my eyes  all that will end.  There will be no steering, no lanes, no mountains, no sun.

Just stopping.

No knowing.