A walking stick is a good companion in moonlight. Indirect is real; full-on brightness is illusion that lasts but for a day. Keep the sun comfortably far away, so primal and so hot and demanding – but moonlight glows only for those who have patient eyes.

I would not say I absolutely need a companion – I am able to walk upright, but the comfort of earthy wood, rough bark yielding to my grip, melding with my hand – connects me to the ground beneath me, frees me to look up, about, inward while hardly breaking stride.

You walk slower with a walking stick. You have to find a pace – a rhythm the two of you share, timing that blends with the contour of land, a guide that prods the ground ahead of each step. “Follow me, let me share this walk with you” it says – and the feel that flows from earth through my boots upward in my body, through my trunk, branching out to my limbs to the very fibrous nature of my fingertips – why it’s almost like I am a tree – a brother on a journey together. We feel the same feelings. We don’t need to speak.

Another thing about walking sticks: often, perhaps usually, they are cast-off, disregarded, broken branches that the walker sees (out of all possible timber) and selects, and measures against his body. If the feel in the fingers is right, if the length is comfortable, if the circumference is rounded enough with a strong fiber to withstand the use, then you choose it. You choose a walking stick like you choose a lover. One of my favorite types of walking sticks is a willow branch cut down by a beaver. We find them along creeks and rivers and call them “beaver sticks.” It’s astonishing that most willow/beaver sticks are very close to the same size, weight and circumference. They make wonderful companions.

Some prefer cedar or hemlock or oak. Some like to shave them with a sharp knife, whittling until comfort arrives – and I admit that can be satisfying. But I prefer a found stick – one prepared and presented by nature, left across my path by fate – one I find, like a found poem – there is rhythm, there is harmony, there is art lying all about us cast off, broken – only needing the moon to show us.