A wall of black, oozy, Missouri River mud looms in front of me,
sticky, impossible to even walk through.
When I push, it gives only a little.
Then it creeps into my nostrils, suffocating.
I back off, walk this way and that way, trying to find an entrance.
I push again; the mud engulfs.
So I back off, play it safe, read a book, play the piano,
go boutique shopping, sing, hike, brush the horses.
I walk back; the mud wall looms still.
I write up to the mud wall.
It starts to ooze onto the paper, into my brain.