Sunday, April 15, 2018

midnight in sink's canyon

long there in the restless night the wind whispers
through the delicate tapestry of pine and quakies,
speaking nearly imperceptible utterances.
heard by few
heard by none save the scurrying feet of one accustomed to the voice
perceived, but not heard by this mortal ear

the dim lights above a deep and mysterious blanket
both warm and callous
the blood that flows, yet unfathomably distant.

the distant din of chilled water
flinging itself joyously from the cold peaks outlined in the starscape
echoes and soothes as if the very air around it
is a salve, drawing out the bile and infection of long days

the regal cry of a wolf, of many, wails low across the canyon
eliciting a primal chill as predator is aware of predator
a dying bed of coals glows red against the ageless stone
and the rich smell of earth and smoke and the mountain fills the soul

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