Retelling of a fable.
A fallen log sat up high where one finds mountain goats. Windswept and chilled, it became a slippery shortcut for a long path down and back up to the other side. Today, two goats were headed to opposite sides, and only that log stood in the middle.
One goat stepped onto the log. Then the other did. The wind blew and their hairs followed, but the goats stood in place. One stepped, then the other did, then the first, then again the other. And now they had a problem: goats don’t walk backwards. With nothing to lose and the greener grass on the other side to gain, the first goat stepped. The second stood in place, his mind not decided. So he stood as the other goat stepped, barely keeping his grip on the slippery log underneath.
They paused again a couple feet away from each other. The moment of truth. They turned their heads and stared as well as animals with herbivore eye placements could, eye to eye, singular. Then our decisive goat charged. And our other goat thought “what the hell?” and lunged. They locked horns, and they thrashed, and they both slipped on the wind-polished log, falling off, one into the rapids below, and another to the side of the log, shaken, and wiser.
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