On the trail that day, in the wind, where the oak leaves whisper, shadows of wings covered him, from the sky…
yet he was never afraid, even with the distant sounds of singing, of chanting and drums, he noticed shadows shifting,
so he stopped with a poem nearing its creation. Sitting on a large rock with prayer beginning as a spring,
light flickered and when he opened his eyes he found…..
he was the river, after all.
Poem, and Image, Copyright © 2020 ancient skies