Ambush

(To make sense of our narrative, backpedal dear readers.)

Trapped on a lonely, winding stretch of North Berkeley road. Penned on one side by geology's run-stuffer, storey-high outcroppings of Northbrae Rhyolite, a smooth, creamy-yellow rock. On the other by a steep gorge, the sole domain of hardy hillside flora, blackberry brambles, and other sedimentary remains.

Face to face with the fearsome foil, devoid of architectural or cognitive context, like some acephalous ghoul, defying natural laws, nose thumbin' at the herald of reason and verity.

Without the means to disarm or negate, I considered again the teachings of Sun Tzu: The army's disposition of force (hsing) is like water. Water's configuration (hsing) avoids heights and races downward.

Instantly, I stepped off the hillside, seeking a soft landing in the swollen creek below, a pursuit impossible, shades of Butch Cassidy.

The battle for me lay elsewhere, but I needed to regain strength. I needed to revisit purity.