The Rushing

After an unusually warm November,

We have our first breath of cold.

I brought in my flowering plants,

and cleared a place for them on the metal prep table

that sits next to the the south window

in my 80 year old kitchen.

The wind chime is ringing in the sometimes blustery wind.

But it is also singing and tinkling in a soft measure of calm.

The sky is dark but not so dark really.

The light softly illuminates the now drenched leaves

that adorn my lawn.

Three full days have passed,

since we walked down The Mountain

that the Huichole call the Center of the Universe,

the place where the sun was born.

As we began our return journey,

We heard, and then we saw a Crow.

He flew between us and the decorated sky

of pink and blue and magenta.

Then, in the silence,

We heard the sound of the air rushing

around his black feathered wings,

as if he was flying inside our minds.

As he flew towards the Mountain,

We heard him call into the brightness of the silence.

Soon, his partner followed right behind.

Again, we heard the Rushing,

A sound that in our combined 100 years on earth,

We had never heard before.

Perhaps because we were rushing.

I rush around too much I think.

In the name of efficiency or whatever,

I power through my days like a steamer,

breaking the water of the infinite sea,

leaving a wake of accomplishments.

Today, I think it would be wise

to take my piece of time,

and listen to the wind,

and to The Rushing.


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