inscrutable hand

In the afternoons, she follows her blue shadow through the glitter-bombed woods.

What is it about the shadow that tugs at her orange-tufted paws and purple tongue?

Even if she spoke English, she could not tell you.

It leads her to the gravel pit, where the dirt bikes buzz like oversized cluster flies.

What do the dirt bikes know?

Even if they spoke English, they could not tell you.

Maybe it’s something like what the eggbeater knows: the inscrutable hand urges you onward, long after you’d have stopped if it were up to you.



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