Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Cruch Crunch

Saturday morning 3:45 am
Eschewing sleep
which will not come
I don my walking shoes
and wander into the dawn

no fast walk for me
just a steady pace
crunching along the dirt and gravel
one step at a time

crunch, crunch
left foot
right  foot
left foot

the cool morning air
not quite freezing
but close (34) on this summers morning in the highlands
brushes my face
as I walk through the shadow land

the pain that drove me here
driving me onward

the sky in indeterminate
marked by clouds
a deeper shade of purple
thin streaks in the sky
fringed with red
the promise of sunrise

still I walk
crunch, crunch
the air is silent
so silent

until, some where far away in the trees
a single bird sings a lonely song
chirping her lament

crunch, crunch
the sky lightens, gold glowing
warmer now

and so the world awakes
the raucous caws of magpies
joining the music
as robins and finches join in
a natural symphony that fills the air

dogs, now awake add percussion and depth
as does the hoot of an owl
here a horse, the a cow
bound through a pasture
bucking and twisting, fully alive

roosters have finally figured out that day has sprung

and still I wander
crunch, crunch
I slip off the road into my pasture to find
hidden and nestled a pair of fawns
who in the way of fawns simple stare at me from between
stalks of grass

a mother lark fresh from gathering
nervously slips into her bird house where hungry mouths await

slowly life stirs and wakes
and deep within
the spirit sings

a little weakly
and perhaps off key
but she/he tries

crunch .crunch

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