Dark Moor

A wintery sun slips under a flat horizon. No faraway lights to guide me, just this pitch-dark moor and a racing pulse. I was thinking too much or not enough, long walks can turn you into a cart horse hauling around an unlit mind. The chill air bites through to fear. Not knowing where I was or should be, eyes much too wide to measure distance. Goat paths crisscross under my boots. A sheep calls to an invisible flock. North somewhere, a frigid car sleeps. People die like this, lost, and blinded by their own senses. Not I; stumbling on, I survive to write it down.