In a hundred winters, so much that is fertile has passed
through the veil.
Our eyes soften, as we climb over a fallen fence,
over a field where
Bunch grass grew shoulder high, laurel bays spotted soft curves,
Whispering — under the shelter of an oak
among leaves, acorns.
Into the darkening, we come — weary, quiet, breathe,
Listen inside ourselves — a place imagining violet
hang into indigo light floating
breathe into blue wafting into green listen turn into gold fall into orange
as we are Spirit
transform into deep red.
Discerning East — sunrise over lemon pepper trees —
great-horned owl eyes a mouse
scurries over a meadow.
How can we know if efforts protecting land will
come to anything?
Connected to ancient flocks of geese rising —
noise like a hurricane.
We will know death, yet not the end of our acts,
with pride, not hope.
In the South — noonday. The red-tailed hawk lands on the
buck-eye.
Sun bearing down on fallen branches, seeds will be gathered.
What tears us apart?
What spurs us?
Keen division—
working against our elders’ wishes.
Separate from herds of elk —
with tremendous horns
grazing in masses.
The land feeds us if we let it yet another hunger —
for illusion of security
for sanctuary from the cycle — gnaws.
We leave anger, not toil.
In the West, the persimmon sun is setting,
charcoal streaks the sky—
a jackrabbit burrows to escape
the sight of bald eagles gliding overhead.
What is the evening for?
Drawing close,
we comfort one another —
there is much to fear —
mountain lions, bobcats, coyotes, foxes
under the boughs of olive trees —
a quail caught in the palm of the hand.
We leave safety,
but not our friends.
North sky at midnight blankets raccoons, opossum,
and the thirsty silver shadow of the crescent moon illuminating water bubbling from the land,
spring brooks, ponds, moving even lakes,
filling rivers flowing into valleys
under the clarity of stars,
humans dreaming together
building a mountain of twigs, sticks
and black earth
before we sleep—
our prayers braided,
laid down
at the altar of change.