3:10. JULY. 2009.

The sun’s effulgence like light from a dark diamond.

Clouds so low we breathe them.

The brindled meadow.

Dapple of shadows, stipple and ripple

of waters.

The slow creeks. Bank full rivers.

The muddy flow and go of it all.

*

Is the sacred ever silent?

Or does it babble and hum and whistle.

Continually. Invisibly.

The tongues of the leaves wagging.

Wash of wind through the grass.

A young woman wearing it on a hot day as a long flowing dress

made of something just this side of air.

*

What do I wish?

Or wish for?

At eighty and holding a short string

strummed to a thread by cancer.

Short fuse.

An entirely different story? Or the same story?

How would I know?

It’s all so obvious in its secrecy.

*

3:10.

The afternoon sunk to uncharacteristic stillness.

Below the burning bush, the silk of tent spiders melts away.

Is it better to be the teller of the tale? Or the subject of the story?

All narratives being false.

The darkness dancing away beneath our feet.