There is a wolf in the sky, running. This is a winter sky, darkly inhabited by ice beings, filled with sound as they rattle their frozen tresses. The wolf shakes, shedding a cap of snow, faltering now in his steady stride. He looks back and calls questioningly in a low voice. I answer.
Who am I, you ask? I am the one who answers the call. The voice of the south wind, bringing light’s slow return and the sun’s warm breath across your nape.
This breath is the fabric of dreams. The ozone scent of rain, of rainforests. The lazy hum of the spring awakening of the boreal forest. The return of songbirds, the birth of their young.
We rest. The earth holds us tenderly; she cares little where we are on our journey. It matters only that we are. We are.
July 11, 2008