A desert again, always a desert and she the saint of uncounted names, her crying eases, no smile appears for this Madonna of the coyotes, her orange-orbed eyes shuttered against the slowly retreating sun. Once her tears watered the desert sands, mixed with the blood of a Christ now long forgotten, trans- substantiated into a spirit we formed in our image, no longer we in his. The Blessed Mother watches, holding hope, holding space, holding a serenity we cannot fathom in our search for divine justification. She remembers, she mourns, for what ought to be, and waits for the windwalkers to pull the blanket of stars over her.
I saw the sun rise this morning over Mt. Hood, the glow that announced to the horizon its approach. There should be in the life of every man, every woman, that moment when seeing dawn lift, peel back the shroud from Mt. Hood causes the sudden intake of just that much extra breath.
The jetty is replete today with tourists, pale as the sun bleached concrete, stopping to gawk at the fishermen who ignore them intent on watching the sadly still line.
The pelicans sit on the rocks grooming and posing, talking loudly on occasion before spreading wings and flying off. Out on the jetty a pelican waits patiently for the fisherman to pack up for the day, knowing he will dump his bait bucket on the concrete and the pelican will be rewarded for his patience.
In the twilight of the dove, that moment when the sun’s retreat has only just begun my shadow stretches ever so slowly into oblivion.
I hear it whisper to me a promise to return and I want nothing more than to believe it, for the grant of another day is a small wish granted, one I make with the knowledge that the genie of age is growing ever more tired of responding to my unchanging request.
Appearing night makes no promises and the stars consider me and us all inconsequential in the celestial scheme of things
Arising into night the departing sun tangos away with its cloud, memories soon forgotten.
Other dancers take the stage, now a romance, now a war dance, feathers raised in prayer to unseen gods.
Night will soon bring its curtain across this stage, the avian casts’ final bows taken the theater will darken, awaiting another performance, a new script tomorrow, but for this solitary moment of frozen grace, it is we who write the conversation, our lines sung by actors who know only nature’s unrelenting song.
There is nothing like, no words to adequately describe, that moment when a cloud- hazed sun lingers wishfully just above the horizon, grasping the sky with brilliant talons of light, fearing becoming lost in a darkness that will, on this night of the new moon, engulf us all in its inky shroud.
We know, or pray, the sun will return in hours, just as the sun knows its work is never done so long as it has light to give, hoping that final collapse is eons away.
As it finally settles beyond sight, we smile, retreat to the table and consume our dinner and wine, our daily companion forgotten until its dawning return.