Moving Lightly

I move lightly at sixty, a little less than the max. Any faster, and the sunflower shells I spit blow back in my face, and any slower and the driver behind becomes too distressed. I move lightly at sixty, homeward through the rural landscape, past barns and combines, engine humming, without straining, secure that I need not be anywhere, or anything, but myself. I move lightly at sixty, through the longer shadows of fall, short days and warm afternoons, trees variegated with the leafy nostalgias of the year past, and the years before. I move lightly at sixty, the old van's engine drones as I "OM", indistinguishable one from the other, both well worn, and oblivious of the years we show. I move lightly at sixty, no longer with a need to lie, or prevaricate, in love with every woman I see, and no longer afraid to say so. I move lightly at sixty, in love with the journey, rather than the goal. In love with the moment rather than the hour and the need to mark it. I move lightly at sixty, bemused by public anger over a rappers words, knowing they are far less harmful than the blood shed in my time. I move lightly at sixty, ready to gear down if necessary, still able to speed up if needed to avoid the hazards of an overactive ego and libido. I move lightly at sixty, content to be alone, joyful to have company, regretting neither, thankful for old friends, and old loves. I move lightly at sixty, finding that not acting, is as important as the act, knowing that one can be undone, and the other, can't. I move lightly at sixty, like a comfortable breeze on a fall day, a thermal for a bird, uplift for a friend, a drying wind for a tearful cheek.