Wherever I live, I always seem to find a place of prayer somewhere away from town. When I lived in San Jose, this was south of the city and up in the eastern mountains far down a long windy road. Out there in the wilderness, when you throw your voice to the stars, perhaps god hears—perhaps the angels do. But, beyond a doubt those creatures hidden away or wandering through the underbrush hear.
Silhouette
a new road
like so many before
an unstriped snake
convulsing across the mountains
each bend a heave
each rise a toss
where starless overcast crushes
asphalt into shadows
stopped in a dusty turnout
boot-steps scuffle and pace
hidden hands claw the hidden sky
driven far from the city
deep among shapeless trees
grasping and gasping for solace
here prayers cannot be hidden
they are pulled from the throat
ripped from the lungs
torn from the belly
swallowed whole
by subtle unseen sounds
dry leaves crunch
twigs pop and snap
movement scuttles and skitters
stirred by a torment
sucked from human lips
by the wind
in the double-darkness
a prayer halts
buried in beats of blood
as a presence nears
yet makes no noise
rustling only the senses
the prayer turns
throws a cone of light
searching through the oaks
and steps away reveals
in the outline of a wolf
two hollow orbs of light
Publication History:
The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005
