Tuesday, July 7, 2009
By cupping my hands, I form a whistle
And send notes lifting through three smoky valleys
Round notes are my messengers and my measure of distance
As they glance the top of each ridge.
Next to me, you stand watch-
Side by side we listen to the sounds flying out
And then look into the warming orange of cypress treetops
As the deepening reds of the sky bleed to chilled blue.
Your breathing, with mine, punctuates this passage-
Way off, a small plume cloud ignites in spiral reverie.
Lifting in silent increase and marking this passage.
It is our turn to rest in peace.
July 7, 2009