Under my hand, a stone bear in nesting

circles carved by ancestors, behind me,

the walking woods at dusk, feather and fur,

the little stone, moss, and mushroom people—

we all slow, growing silent, listening.

Beyond the barrier islands and reefs,

where the sun sets blood red and thunderhead

brew black and quickening, the abyssal

heartbeat spirits deep within the bedrock

upon which all of the dreaming is sown.

I would call you by your first given name,


I would make this offering on this spot,

but what are words against the coming gale?