I returned to the desert canyon and
listened to the breeze chime its
silver psalms that speak of life in
the Spirit. A life that teeters
on the edge of my fingertips.
Here, the sky casts wide its blue
mantle over the hills, letting them
be both fringe and border. Words are
not spoken. I ask for nothing. Yet,
in the ebb and flow of a wordless
tide, received instruction
“Surrender. All that a prophet needs is here,
packed into the parched earth, carried on the
backs of scratching insects, drifting from
aromatic leaves and twisty trees.”
No smoke billows from rocks to mark a
threshold, over which to enter the sacred
abode. Yet the plaintive song of doves mingle
with the sound of a mighty restless torrent.
A flock of little birds arrive. Their feathers
burn blue against the sagebrush. One of them
fixes me with his glassy gaze as if to speak…
Has he a question? A message?
Well, they’re gone now. Leaving as
swiftly as they came. Yet the echoing
thunder of tiny wings beat upon
the door of my soul.