It is here on this ridge exposed to the orange dusk of mountain autumn that the story begins. Buck wood for the stove feel the heat of shoulder to tendon greet the mule deer and water the garden again. In rhythm, with song when the ax begins to blend with wind carry on to warmer days on the river’s open banks where the fervor of healing is found in water. Flow from one origin to another-- there is never a place where we cannot begin where the current is ancient, the wind is young teaching each other like the ax and the wood. Carve a place for dignity plant a seed and pray for rain for sun for understanding outside your self. There will come a day when they say: who do you think you are and another day will come for you to tell. On that day the story will appear but do not tell of yourself tell the story of the staff that blossomed in the desert or the one about your enemy’s greatest victory tell the story of somewhere else
Donkey Carts and Desolation
Dilapidated clapboard shacks piles of bricks in the sand scratching at the surface of cohesion Ingenuity is the notion of building On a foundation made from loss Out in these arid expanses where the Red Sea meets the sand people dream of progress made from humility and the laughter of others multi-colored dross scatter across the earth like foreign shrubbery We converse in codes of motion Language signaling daily headway Advice for the long haul.