A summer squall changed the
world this afternoon, for
soil dry, for thirst of
finches slaked in
blossoms, for the
withered mind.
Mountain monsoons
raise the dead when
lighted vapors filled
with the spirit of fresh cut
sage return to sky. I
sauntered with the God of
dogs til dusk, whistling
Danny Boy, the words
unremembered but for
the pipes, the pipes are
calling. It is for few to
understand the
age in which we
live. Most do not
see that our
stories are falling
from our books,
come unbound, pages
torn and twisting in the
cyclone zeitgeist. Each
generation carries
its own weight and
gives itself its own
name. Each generation
goes the way of the
grayling. In the new earth
everything belongs and
all good things must
arrive at their
beginning. We are
early in our history; only
at the end of our birth. There
were those unknown who
walked in light. They saw the
likes of Augustine and
chose another way.
