Dogged

October sharpens sunlight to a

glint and obliges the eye to longer

shadows. There is fire in the

death of things and

I am dry as dread. The

hailstorms of August stripped

chokecherry and currant

bare of fruit. An injured

deer is stalked by

two young coyote. The liquored

old man that lives across the

creek with his half crazy common

law wife is days away from

dying. Autumnal turning,

burning, drawing down

into the earth the last portions of

summer’s feast. The world’s

great hunger still pangs in

October and suffering is

the downturned side of the

sentient. I have lived hard days

in autumn. Silence asks

“are you prepared for the

loneliness of being free?”

When I descend to gratitude for

this beautiful, sobering

inquiry, when I walk the

thirsting trail through citrine leaves,

still singing, I am

ready to be free

even if no one ever knows

I am.

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