the morning is clear, bright, and silent
as i walk the little road to the bridge
the deaf dog of no understanding walks
by my side, that being enough
from the bridge i look upstream
to the waters roiling down
then turn, to see them roll away
and never return
some days, after a heavy rain
the stream becomes a raging torrent
other times, after endless sunshine,
it barely trickles the timeless stone
today, it is what it should be, temperate
song to my soul
this land is ancient and unmoving
unwavering, stoic and strong
the morning is big in stillness
and it's boundaries speak
of passages beyond
high up on the ridge, light bleeds
through the bulwark of leafless trees
falling slowly down the hillside
spawn to an awakening
high above me, geese circle
searching for direction and
i watch them while the hawk
who so often has wondered of me
sits perched, and wonders some more
there is much this morning has to tell me
of life, and what is, and what surely
must be as it always has been
-but it's the waters i hear
soon the light will flood the valley
stirring the sleeping reality
into the convolution
i'll carry back up the road
but just now, it's the waters
which haunt me, like the winds
upon mountains
and the cry of the lone wolf
deep in the night
these are callings spiritual
which i've chased on earthen legs
only to be left behind
with the deaf dog
the wondering hawk
and the ghosting light
upon waters that haunt
my humanity
