Bits of youmewethey littering the traveled ways, meandering and mindless, we shed and clutter micro-plastics and tracers of light — the habit body scribbled over and over on the field of time, as a child with a handful of crayons. Everywhere our debris, used up or forgotten, while we go our ways assuming Tides will wash the beach, Mother will wash the dishes, the clothes, the clear-cut mountainside. The traces we leave may have use; serve as food for larvae and hungry ghosts, but then those have our scent and follow yearning for more, so we feed them, forgetting consequences and Newton’s first law. The sign saying “don’t feed the bears” fails to explain what happens when you do.
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