Beyond the bulrush, leaf-bare birch trees suggest the slender face of a doe. Hooded mergansers and a white scatter of gulls on the marsh. Belted kingfisher and red-tailed hawk. Opening the window, morning chill fills the room. Dry fallen leaves, crow call and distant traffic. I stretch toward the hidden sun. Bend at the waist. Sit and strike the brass bowl.
We appear from nowhere. Our existence is not voluntary.
A dream: Bound and blindfolded. Smoke filling the room we roll across the stone floor and press shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek. Impassioned. Every last thing we can possibly be. Then gone.
Seeing me, the heron
turns abruptly in flight,
it’s something that we are.
No, not the threat.
The turning and away.
Disappearing sweep of blue-grey.
Late autumn forest yellow gold leaves thin silver branches drawing white semi-light into crawling root darkness-not-darkness waiting-not-waiting for spring winter nothing dead nothing reborn tomorrow wind bent rattled touched hands forehead pressed into something TREE not solemn wise divine bone blood organ chakra signals to-from minds all hidden born moved returned hidden born moved returned
under the breath
we are a flowering
in deep sleep too
Eyes closed on a starless night.
The undertow pulls you down.
Lets you go.
Do you hear the sound of wings?
Sudden and gone?