A ship climbs the river to a quay,
loads and slides away.
Up river,
then about,
same passage but inside out.

A sailor beats against loud wind,
tacking northeast to shore,
then tacking northwest again,
but in returning sails one shore,
silently in a single reach.

Hike out in winds across the sun,
return squinting into silence.
Hike out past bright stems
showing each leaf and calyx,
stumble home through fields of silhouette.

A passage away and a passage home
may pass that same sycamore
rooted in some other planet.
No path turns back.
No path turns at all.