On my return, he’s gone.
Maybe this was a reality break—
insane to the sanity.

I walk to the bench, his place
of sobriety, calmness,
to pick up on his moods.

For a while, I rest,
but more for reassurance—

He sits on a green bench
fixated on something a field beyond
or maybe traffic miles away.
He’s quiet, not moving. 

I ride the egg-shaped 
path and he’s still there,
I can see an elbow.

I circle again warming 
up for a longer trail across 
two bridges—
Floyds Fork beneath.