Red winged blackbird sang

of the expanse of all things, of

the sacred emptiness of plain

spaces. I walked beneath three

mornings of his melodic teaching

as if I needed to hear it again and

once more. The dogs appeared to

have the lesson well in hand though

I struggled to hold it long enough to

bring it to the page. Once there,

all I could do was rankle of

people I have tried to forgive;

those who adorn themselves in

various shades of purple. They

do not feel the wind for their feet

are firmly poised on the axis of

the world. While a man or woman of the

faith-remnant look into water and

fall in, those in purple look into

water and fall in love. And they do not

hear the songs. I still have many

suspicions so blackbird sent me

‘round and rapt on trail as he

loosed into a northerly squall to

lift his existence into the Unity. The

swallows arrived from Venezuela today.


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