I worry.

I fret.

a stomach rolling

like a runaway truck down a mountain road

I worry.

I then ask.

Where is this going?

It is going,

going into the future,

I ease the clenching fists I have made

I let the strands run through my hands

following them as they trace their way ahead

Then I raise my hands.

“Something good will come of this.”

I breathe.

I walk.