Dogs barking in closed cars.
What’s he doing at the side of the road?
He’s sleeping In his matted tatted fur,
Weathered leather and crushed bone.
Sleep on squashed squirrel
A bud! What joy! Fulfillment of life’s purpose.
The never ending circle of life and death and life.
The world is a frigid waiting room of pebbled glass.
We make the chipping chopping sounds of an ice-storm morn.
Overhead-passes spit contemptuously at passing cars.
Power lines emerge from dripping silver cocoons.
The animals and birds seem to exist only in books now.
Or were they someone’s fantastic imaginings – the ravings of a mad man?
The rivers and woods are as silent as my book of colored pictures.
Clouds at my feet; the condors back glistens in the misted light below. We glide, he and I, through the steaming cauldron, oblivious to the villages hidden below.
Far beneath me slides your disappearing majesty. Sad, solitary one; your mate’s the victim of Indian sacrifice. Your children are in zoos. Hated enemy of the poor, whose scrawny sheep you carry off. The enveloping mists obscure you like a shroud.
The man ploughs his field and sows his abundant seed into the furrow’s depth
From this union of man and earth are born their edible children
Oh Mountain! You’ve a froth of cloud pinned to your voluminous green lap like a snow-white hanky pinned to a lady’s skirt
The mountains are rounded like a giants cast-off hats; here banded by straw huts; there adorned with cows.