Across the painted river
into the high plain
a flock of dove ascend
into the blue orange twilight.

I stand on the soft earth.
Rooted, serene.

What a rare and splendid moment.

The mad week
and all its stupid calls
melt like an ice cube
in hot chocolate.

In this clear cool space
I cannot think
about what will be.

A cricket scratches the silence.
The breeze whispers
a gossamer fugue
across the hairs on my arms.

Goosebumps sparkle,
percolate uninvited
from somewhere
near the core.

I think:
Oh, to be able to bottle this
and save it. A priceless elixir
for my crazies .

But this is not a moment
to think.

11/02/2011

Posted on 11/02/2011
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