Sun glints from their feathered breasts
like ornaments in the crumbling Live Oak
that watched women grind acorns
when it was small, lost between the rocks
that have seen it all. First light near
the Solstice blinds the mind of time,
moments independent from our histories
and the monetary cravings of humanity
that are enough—once or twice a year,
after a rain, to awaken veneration
streaming through a mountain gap
to pick this old dirt—to expose
the tracks of moccasins in midden
walking with native gods, just long
enough to become a believer again.
drycrikjournal 
Your comment about live oaks that “watched women grind acorns” was especially poignant and thought-provoking. The allusion to our Native American past and all the oak has “seen” was comforting to me and made me stop and think similar thoughts about artifacts in my area, the Texas Panhandle and home of the Comanches two hundred years ago.
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I just can’t help my mind’s diversions on this ground rich with shifting cultures and history when time means nothing for a few short moments. Glad the line triggered your own interesting diversions.
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Another “old man” poem. Good one. I am glad I am not getting old…Bill
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Good for you!
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Like your family, the indigenous before, imagine how many generations of dove have lit in that tree to spread peace throughout. How many generations have taken delight in seeing them and had their hearts lifted.
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