Walking the labyrinth,
clocking its distance because
someone asked, on the way

in I come upon a small
oblong black bug heading
the same way I am,

and I pause, bend to
look closely, its little
legs chugging it from

shade into sun ever
so slowly, taking its time,
walking its own walk

as we all must do,
and I step over it to
continue on the path

to center (.2 miles, it
turns out, one way),
and later, on the return,

I pause to look for my
my walking companion,
but it has disappeared,

at least from my view,
though I smile knowing
that the wee presence—

or perhaps a large one
in a tiny form—is still
around somewhere,

even if I can’t see it.

Photo / Jan Haag

About janishaag

Writer, writing coach, editor
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