by Steven Craig
In any ground,
there is a certain quantity of magic,
Always pressured to the surface,
always held forcefully beneath the waves.
All works made to be seen and used are shaped there,
awareness brings insight to its power,
relation to its vector.
In its gathering moment,
it presses against the sole of ones foot,
oddly tingles the texture of ones hand,
draws the sudden attention of ones eye.
The blind eye beneath the necks thick hair signals warning.
As the mind communes with the time now at hand,
preparations made long ago suddenly complete their intent.
The shadow is seen against the suddenly brightened ground,
each blade of grass ablaze with abundance,
each crawling thing strobed to sudden icon.
The lightning flashes boldly from its form,
stark against the mass that rushes it on.
Rushing just across the limits of the trees,
overflowing from beneath the feet,
That resurgent will,
that focused point of limitless power.
Only a moment,
only an instant,
only once will you ever see it.
And it is gone.