Clouds of Sparrows Heave the Wind
The body's habit of growing old
is not broken by twelve-stepping,
or force of will, or reading
out-of-print Heinlein books.
There is a voice that speaks to me
when I am in my sleep,a familiar
not quite animal or person. We meet
at the river's edge and look out
toward the West that is beyond the West.
In my hand a crystal turns itself,
hard edges dulled in the process,
rose quartz, a prayer repeated
an uncounted time.
I enter the deepest part
of my coexistence and find
the sudden screech of a sparrow
as it attacks a crow come too close
to an egg-settled nest.
Beware of me now. I know
that I mark lines and defend them
and if you fail to retreat
from my central scream
I will risk my body
to resolve your intrusion.
As Escher placed a river in a drawing,
a current flows as a border
that defines my boundaries.
I hear the voice again in the surf
as it traverses the rocks. I know myself
loved by that voice.
There is no age now to feel,
just the water's long procession
and the sparrows' sprint
through the wind.