Walking to a hill

I went walking to a hill with a friend the other day, which basically meant driving down a pot-hole patterned dirt road to a point where the car could go no further then walking down into a small valley and along a path that wound its way through small trees.  As we moved through the trees I looked through the branches, at the curves and bends that made me think of how thought would look if it was made into a solidity of this world, the winding of tendencies of understandings as they brushed against other tendencies and the articulations of moments when a decision is somehow made to branch towards some new direction yet remain there within a sense of togetherness as the weave of searching continues into the spaces that are there free to be explored, with the whole surface of earth moving within every moment of every plant making these same decisions, and us humans moving there within them sometimes for some reason having a sense of freedom as if we are free?  I saw a spoon in a tamarind tree all bold red heartwood and energy of peace, that might be a spoon for holding as nothing of any meaning beyond the holding.  Within the branches of the tamarind trees there was evidence of cutting, not with a saw but maybe with some sort of hatchet or machete, clean slices through wrist-sized branches, someone's evening firelight, and I realized that I was lagging behind a bit and so I caught up with my friend and walked on towards the hill.