White Clouds

I hope one day I can walk the hills
with you.
That one day
we can listen to the wind
as it whispers through the oaks.
That one day
we can soak in the sun
as the wildflowers do.
That one day
you will fall for the hills
just as surely as I
have fallen for you.


Insects in The Mist

I was coming down from a hike

one day in September

just before dusk.

The last rays

of golden glory

splashed about the hillside

like honey

and as it passed

through the sturdy manzinitas

it created a spectacular

amber radiance.

Though not quite dusk

the bugs were out in full force


for a moment,

I sat in brief silence.

Among the amber motes

was a peculair flying specimen,

though the name now eludes me.

It was a small grouping,

maybe five or six,

flitting in seemingly any way

they so pleased.

The light hit them

in such a puzzling way

that made them dazzle,

as if microscopic fragments

of gold or silver

had been granted glassy wings,

and there they hovered,

darting about in ways

that no intelligence could fathom

a pattern.

It was,

at this particular moment,

that the crickets began;

their soft prelude

beginning with no audience

but me.

It was not long

before their symphony

became deafening;

a colossal crescendo

of chitinous violinists

rising to meet the furious dancings

of whatever flew precariously above


quite suddenly,

it seemed that the miniscule maestros


in fact,

conducting their aerial counterparts.

I was not witnessing chaos,


I was seated,

front row,

in a musical

that has been playing

every night

for the last few

million years.


there was something else.


amidst the chaos

that lended itself

to my own understanding.

It was here,

on this hillside

among the insects

did I ever experience



Ancestral Guidance

Though long forgotten,
there once was a language
known only to the Earth,
long before our birth.
Whispers between the trees,
utterances amidst the snowy peaks,
grumbling among the cool rocks.
Through our understanding
of the land
we learned to speak it,
A truly primal language
that extends far beyond
the limits of voice.
A raw, cosmic energy
that lies
within all living things.
Over time,
we forsook the elements
and spoke a far harsher language
and forgot how to listen
to its subtle voice.

if you go out
into the trees
or among the rocks
and truly,
you can still hear
its gentle message
that nothing in nature
is ever done needlessly.

Least of all,



I had it again.
That dream.
It visits me every now and then
each time
more vivid
than the last.

I find myself at the foot
of a looming mountain.
Surrounding me
are pines
as tall as my eyes can see.
A sharp wind blows through them
as it does through me,
and something within beckons me
into the forest.

It is not long before I come across
a lake
and placid.
There is something deeply sacred
about this reservoir,
and in every iteration of this vision
I stand by the azure edge
observing the calm that washes
over the weariness
of my soul.

As I make my way up this peak,
a light snow begins to fall
but it does not chill me.
The palatial pines begin to thin
and soon
all that lies ahead of me
is a solitary trail.

This is where the dream usually ends.
But not this night.

I reach the summit
and before me lies a small valley
laden with near alien structures
made entirely of ice.
Appearing vacant,
I make my way down the icy slope.

A familiar hum emanates
from these frigid deposits.
Their nature is not known to me
as I run my hand along their smooth edge
a peculiar feeling of recognition
washes over me.

A reflection appears
behind my right shoulder
in the glassy ice before me
and I see myself.

“My son,”
it whispers gently,
“At last.”

The reverie ends.
The previous sequences of this dream
are places that I have visited before
in waking life
but the summit
and all therein,
is unknown to me.



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