Sshhh, flump, ssssh, flump, swish, fooump...

Walking Man was glad to come back to the sunshine, it cheered him up, bright and warm, after enduring the claustrophobic canopy of trees. The cathedral of live timber, whose cacophonous choir consisted of numbingly noisy bluejays, crows and mockingbirds, was intimidating, refreshingly cool at first, but then oppressively damp. It did not bolster his spirit, but like those birds rooting through the leaves for grubs, his buried thoughts were almost scratched back to the surface -- the past personal traumas are better left behind: it's better to keep walking.

Sometimes that old soul music song would pop in his mind, "Feets don't fail me now. Got to keep on walkin'...huh, huh, hey..." But for him "Walkin' to New Orleans" by Fats, albeit done very slowly, would be more applicable. Heck, Robert Johnson had them "Walkin' Blues" probably on the way to the "Crossroads" to make that deal with old 'Scratch.' He had no inclination for diabolic appointments, he just had to keep movin' on. Somewhere in his recollections Stevie Wonder popped up, too.

He was physically tired, old injuries nagged him like some of the people he'd escaped, his shoe had lost some of its sole, and he was not even amused by the potential pun.

As he approached a rise in the road, he could see the road fork, one way would take him to the town, highlighted by its church steeple: maybe he should get a job there, get some new tread for his "wheels." But, more serenely, the other road headed towards a serpentine river lined with green.

Walking Man picked up the pace. He made up a poem as he shuffled,

Flowers wilt, on Burns's kilt
Glaciers melt, on Ermine pelts
Belts and beads, and grey tweeds.

Ssh,phump, ssh,phump, sh,phmp...

Walking Man 27 -- Walking Man, An Annotated Index -- Walking Man 29

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