June 8


Less than a half moon until Solstice and we find ourselves burrowing into the warmth of our intimate tangle. A damp chill has settled, we are reluctant to leave our nest. I can see spires of mist drifting down river, the spirits of plumed dancers with secrets to tell. The fog clings tenaciously to the limbs of ancient giants, thick like greenwood smoke, dripping like a soft rain. We are entombed by a thousand shades of gray, from steel blue lichen to glistening silver-flocked gentian, punctuated by the verdant velvet of moss. I am captivated by the sheen of virtually invisible droplets cloaking everything, and I reflect. Exquisite, fragile creatures exist in those watery globes, lovely things with translucent skin and sparkling green eyes, that swim amidst a moment and are gone. A long life lived in the blink of an eye must surely be the stuff of visions. If I am vigilant I can detect mushrooms popping out of the ground as though they are hunters holed up in a wolf den, emerging with startled expectation. Fiddleheads unfurl to ferns, red cap capsules dance in the dew, lichen swells as though proud of its fleeting awakeness. It is a world that exists only in foggy first lights, elusive and hidden, waiting for the limitless cascade of rebirth. It ascends in secret glimpses, descends in silent sunlight, and has done so for a billion fog-filled dawns. I am here, alive in this moment; transcending human inklings, fixed ceaselessly in the Infinite Present as though decay and divinity were nothing more that the ebb and flow of an instant. I am warm, I am safe, set adrift, and yet I remain anchored to the prayers of my ancestors. They choreograph my dreams as though that world were a talking circle. Soon they will pass the talking stick to me and I will be ready with my own stories. No dream could be as profoundly beautiful as that which surrounds me, ever dismasking, forever a gift to be called up as comfort food for an aging heart. This bond to an unfolding spell makes my eyes heavy with sleep and I turn into Moondog’s embrace. His eyelids flutter like fledglings and a quiet murmur escapes his sensuous lips. He pulls me close as though I were his shelter against what I can’t be certain, before the rhythm of deep sleep consumes his awareness. Wait for me, Moondog, I am nearly there. We will dream together until birdsongs give us a reason to rise.


We dream as though a single soul. I see her alive with breathless anticipation in a world that is inextricably primeval to her. Melodious allusions play the sacred songs of her eclipsed longings. She presses against me, inhaling deeply, exhaling the sigh of desire. I need not awaken to know her, a creature pale as a winter moon, as soft as starlight. Smelling of Earth and herbs, deerskin and smoke, her bouquet staggers my dreaming steps as though transcendent ecstasy were the bitters of a ritual. I wonder where she begins, or ends, or if she does, or if she ever has. She can move like a meadow or a meandering trickle, as real as a rock, as intangible as the vapor that haunts the hollows in the distant mountains. She is the issue of an Immortal mother, conceived in fire, subdued in a drumbeat. I dream of her and while I do I cling to her. As I see her up ahead on the trail beckoning to me, I smell the violets in her hair and feel the rise and fall of her breath as though it were the bellows and I the coals. And when we awaken the dream will insolubly continue as though the echo of a spirit’s voice could be touched with a fingertip.

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