The sky is not empty. Not yet, but soon. Inside the wind is a Turkey-Vulture. Wings stroked by clouds, against blue that is steady, or moving, or both; the swishing silence of deep ocean, where perhaps the Turkey-Vulture escapes the songs of smaller birds, songs that writhe in his throat with longing. What might he himself sing?…
How can the vastness of stars be absorbed into earth? Borne upwards, torn sideways, woven into valleys? So sings the nighthawk, to whom the air holds no vastness, only the fragrance of Sitka alder, of subalpine fir, and soil drained by steady, cliffside winds. He surges down, where lupine, yarrow, and bulrush breathe through gravel, and nighthawk…
Please. Don’t forget there are stars. Sometimes I look at the sky, at the sunset red along the treetops, and I feel nothing at all. I’m not really sure where this nothing comes from. All I know is that if I keep staring, just keep watching the sun, then something will stir, and, once…
Where, wind, do you come from?From the curve of waterfalls?From the chill of low, wet valleys?Do the rocks know? The boulders below the stream, and moss-heavy on the shore? Wind and breeze, do you come from the moon,from tree branches at dusk,or do you come from ferns that toss and rustle and climbup the rocky chests of…