This day will not

yield its sublimity. My

heart is hard and

now to see the heron

torn of wing standing

stalwart, offering herself to

the world’s great hunger. I see

why, last night, I

dreamt of coyote. For

dreams are the

naked utterance of the

soul. While prayers are

spoken rote and

regulated by a

the ruling council of

convention, dreams

will come shred the

veil in lathery jaws of

instinct and desire. I do

not know if I am bird, if I

am canid, or if this

disdain I feel for life

not having loved me as

I once imagined is the

cause of this ruin. All I

know is that I am not

leaving in search of

some completion, some

pacification of my yearning.

There is Love. I am

standing in the shallows

waiting for her to

tear me open in the night.

It will not be long now.

I can no longer fly away.

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