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Sacred Stroll
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Older We walked up the hill on a lovely day
The lovely day – no blue, no sun
Painted over with a purple gray,
The clouds completely covered the window
Through which some believe we are spied upon.
Yes, to us it was the perfect day.
The dry grass on the incline shushed us,
Though no words passed between us as our legs worked hard,
Pulling our weight to the goal, the peak.
Not every thirsty blade was annoyed,
Some whispered beautiful nonsense,
Providing us with entertainment.
We listened to them, tried to be the active audience.
Difficult, however, with the distractions all around.
The boiling sky, for one, would not go unheard.
The old men’s faces we thought we could see
In the mounds of vapor, constantly changing,
Always curious of us ground-dwellers.
The jealous geriatrics are never content with their
Elevated prison.
They try to break out, escape.
But when they do this, they fall apart;
Here is the safeguard, the barbed wire fence,
It tears them up and they fall in their destroyed state
To the predatory soil, trapped again.
We eye the churning ceiling overhead, expecting the jailbreak
But it looks like they’ll be content looking out the window.
We can feel the pull coming from the dirt,
Which can be seen through the patchy grass.
The wasted burned-out red tones, angry, demanding
Its cloudy victims, but unfortunately it cannot prowl,
Cannot hunt, silent passive predator.
Rocks and soil chunks, grinding crumbling beneath our steps.
The top of the hill, below the waving dry grass,
The expanse seems like a swirling pool of brown sludge.
But we are safe atop the mud-turtle’s back.
He does not complain; we are insignificant.
Waiting for us at the peak of the turtle’s massive shell,
A dead crow, stiff, dull black,
His eyes dried out to small empty holes.
The earth surrounding the small body,
A large circle of fertile black,
The grass, succulent, shiny black blades,
Obsidian scimitars.
We stare, and it soon becomes clear,
The clouds would not fall upon this sacred spot.
