Monday, November 2, 2015


In these crossover miles...a luminous wake.

                                          Brenda Peterson

Clouds arch and dive along the skyline.

A school  of black and silver

crossing over

from night into morning.


A cool storm

rides on their backs; and women sit

(long-haired and beaded)

on a  hill  praying

for wind to portage

their sorrow,

their frailty

their anger

overhead into the flood.


An outpour that slathers

the hillside in mud

loosening rock, uprooting stumps and dry growth;

tumbling the debris

of a long season

into the canyon's pit

where carrion birds have left

a  reef of wild bones.


And  women sit on a hill

praying that afterwards

the  clouds will cross

over again- pale and calm

inversing them

of what has gone and given way to light.



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