“a railing beside the stream: he who can grasp me, let him grasp me! i
am not, however, your crutch.”¹
even shore intimacies
mountain shadows. sucked through slipstreams they spread over a
hushed sea. edges of waves unravel to filter into lines that unfold.
soon they redistribute as surfing spots of light. high peaks merge. they
travel along a green orange streaked sky. remnants of ragged dusk
sunlight. an uncertain sighting along the skyline.
a shape it seems to appear for just a moment
almost a silhouette. blurred it alters an already erratic horizon. dark
stag head rises. mouth opens wide. Calls. a sound unique. deeply
raucous. gravelly. trombone-like penetration. stratified crags seem to
crumble. gannet edged caves echo pushed air. osprey nerves tingle.
air waves resonate. inside blades of grass wind ossifies. shadows
gravitate toward sharp purposes. a thrust searches deep into another
magi colour discord. more echoes. snips of time. noises from unseen
rivers move away. banal is safe. dull is warm. starlight dulls. harsh
tones impinge. wide-spread angles expand into an incoming storm.
knifes through marrowbone cold. squashed wave edge sounds begin
to unravel a stags language, a mountains illogical shadow. erased
silence unravels much best left hidden.
rare noise unfolds night of wishes documents an awe filled sound
again The Call. again. again skin shimmers.
a strange Call reverberates
in prised open glands
¹ Thus Spoke Zarathustra Friedrich Nietzsche