What is this thing we call Life?
It is a bursting forth
and a sleepiness
It is the moon rising in a heavenly blue sky of stars amidst darkness black.
It is the leftover prints of a moose gone walking
Clear through the thickness of forest without a trace.
Here, I can be myself, and nothing at all.
Here, where naturalness folds into crevices that go on forever
Lunch by a river winds into a thicket of a lifetimes’ sorrows and beauties
The horse that brought you, let loose
Your hair flows down the river
Where Cottonwoods and flood plains settle into a slow richness.
I praise whatever has brought forth
all this fire and erosion, eruption amidst ice, destruction, disease,
in a cakewalk of massive beauty so deep that I’d be weeping
What can all this be?
Its the rhythm that wakes you up, the cat that calls, the strange noises of elk in rut
on a hillside, the bull so magnificent your feeling arms roam to embrace him.
All I can do is bow down, head high, be who I am
and yet, not be at all.
There is stillness here
And…thunder.
