rivers of doubt

The heat comes for the river first.  It drinks from it twisting the air into moppy strings of green earth. The dogs don't care.  They ride the black path as if it is tundra. One is leashed the other is not.

Along the trail, the grass grows tall but tired.  Sunlight clips through in broken waves catching on the stillness of the river and bouncing off the orb weaver webs.

I can see the spiders.  I can hear my heavy footfalls. Feel the pull of the dog who knows I am slow.

Returning to the J Trail is always the same.  It's like crawling down a tunnel; light at both ends and dark in the middle.

The darkness is doubt.  It is fear.

The dog pulling me is a flashlight that cuts the darkness.  He removes the fear of the next corner, of the overgrowth, and of the drug dealer on bikes that roam boldly.  His brashness and the way I handle him as if he were a keg of dynamite about to blow scares the men passing us.

For this, I am not sorry. In fact, it's a little fuck you for scaring me away from here in the first place and you are welcome.

The dog does nothing for doubt though.  Doubt only fades with time.  Time on the trail chasing the heat, chasing the river.