When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow, the eye rests on cool white aspen. Strange, their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name, so the recollection. Aspen. With a breeze in them, their quiet rhythms, shimmering, quaking. Powder on the palm. Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy the brittle wood, limbs snapping at a grasp, whole trees tumbling in the winds. Sweet scent on a swollen afternoon. Autumn, leaves falling one upon another, gold rains upon a golden earth. How at evening when the forest darkens, aspen do not. And a white moon rises and silver stars point toward the mountain, darkness holds them so pale. They stand still, very still.
Psalm of Home Redux
after rereading Cormac McCarthy and taking a 5 mile run through the River Ranch Laughter is also a form of prayer —Kierkegaard Okay then, right here, Lord, in Bandera, tether me to my shadow like a fat spavined mule stuck sideways in Texas tank mud bawling for eternity At midnight's closing whine of the 11th Street Bar's steel guitar, when the stars slip their traces and race the moon like wild horses to their death in the darkness, let my hoarse song twine with the night wind May the bray of today's good laughter fall like a brittle top branch wind nudged from a sprawling live oak straight down like early spring sleet to the hill country's bent and trembling bluebonnet covered knees