Sunday, 3 July 2011

An Offering

Gimli rushes behind me, one steady ambient expression, water falling from ethereal Vallhalla in the clouds all the way down to where the villagers prepare for the Great Transition.

Drinking holy water, each one of them knows they are blessed.

Up here in the high-country, wind playing the leaves of willow, Swainson’s thrush inspiring young fir trees to sway, the sun so bright my eyes hurt from squinting at the light reflecting off my stark white page.

In a world demarcated by skyscrapers and slathered with concrete, sometimes I think the blind are truly among the lucky.

Old bear shambling up the road, throws his head back to confirm my identity. He does not run away, he's not alarmed or afraid, he just keeps moving throughout his home range regardless of the barriers imposed by humanity, skirting around the obstacles like a river bending snake-like around rocks. Liquescent maneuvers are more efficient than smashing up against things, fighting is only done out of necessity and only for as long as it has to be. Then the re-establishment of peace.

Mountains of peace sitting for eons like Buddhas, silent vigil over the last remaining ancient trees, doing nothing more than shaping the weather blowing in from the ocean, no sound at all except an occasional visceral rumble, like hunger, a tangible feeling all life shares.

I quake with the earth at both the beauty and terror as even the nuclear reactors start to crack. Last chance, last call, like a taxidermied wolf–your head on a wall, and so whatever it is you really want to do–whether following a river from headwaters to its terminus, moving to Montreal to make love with other artists, or just sitting on a gravel road fingering violets as a girl draws pictures from your memories, time is almost it now.

Up in smoke, a silent prayer, diaphonous as cottonwood fluff riding thermal air.

With this, I too make an offering.