Comfort zone (for Arts in the Park)

My world has become too small. I gather some close friends. We climb in a movable nest and head up the Dempster. The gravel ribbon. See: the blessing and the curse of roads. The blessing and the curse of machines. The blessing and the curse of humankind.

Fox casually jogs her path in the bush, parallel to the highway’s swell, unhurried and unconcerned at being seen. We want and don’t want to see bears. The passengers lull to the engine’s hum. The driver hums to her chosen tunes.

We drive to a place where we can hear. Here are the voices of wind, the plants, the birds, and each other. Comfort zone. Refresh and regroup. Or, depending on the month, sprint from hordes of mosquitoes, dash into jaw-clenching sub-zero wind. Rapid or still, it helps us expand.

Some comforts can never be found. Some can be made. It goes like this.

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