a Journal of Poetry and the Arts
And the Rest Will Slowly, Slowly Happen
A hullabaloo of clouds,
Long brushy strokes of grey over peach and gold.
Looking up, you know it.
You don’t drill through this mountain.
And this sky doesn’t end with the heavens.
here in the dry and perfect air,
I hear the old, tired, elegant cadences; the familiar, sad narratives.
Still others, their voices miked and shrill,
straining farther and farther out
for what’s closer and closer home.
There’s another music in this buried light.
Feral. Free ranging.
A young, yellow-legged hawk,
slender, unperturbed, perches on our fencepost a few feet away
before gliding out,
low, over the rabbit-brush.
Early evening, our neighbor skunks, wagging their ostrich-plume tails,
forage dropped wild apples in the yard,
and prove not everything here is turquoise, beige, or rock red.
“…the vast marvel is to be alive, “ D.H. Lawrence said,
who lived up mountain an age ago.
“Start with the sun,” he said,
“and the rest will slowly, slowly happen.”
Soul-ju-ju in the ground.
Little drum-dance of rain.