From where the wild hive dreams,
and, up here, on the high path
where the deer tread quietly
A river of quartz runs through the land,
powerful and melodious,
a honey laden song line.
I am not alone, here
Raven calls
on the wind,
among whispering pines
While, in the marsh below,
two Herons dance, silently
circling, swooping, lifting
Wide stretched wings,
one, a flight feather,
missing
A cock crows in the distance
Beneath the roots of the tall pines,
The Three Sisters,
As I have come to know them,
The wild hive is silent,
save the soft vibration
of dreaming bees
And, from the deer path
that rises through old oak stands,
where the spirits of the forest can be felt
The lake glints through dark trees,
Holly leaves bristling
with rising Sunlight.
It is beautiful.
Yet here,
in the dappled thicket,
waiting, curious
An unexpected blessing, shines
in the black pearl
of the Wren’s eye
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