We wear the struggles here
like scars, deep furrows cut
by joy and pain upon our flesh
rising bravely before dawn.
What tracks we leave will fade
eventually, the dust and rust
of dreams that tried to dance
with gravity and grace.
Birdsong,
crow’s cry,
the titter of quail
awakening,
the coyote’s howl,
screech of an owl—
simple tunes
to put words to.
It is an art, writing songs
beneath our breaths,
all the old mantras
matching the heartbeat
of living things, the wild refrains
that beg release instinctively,
caring not for praise—only
space to turn them loose.
drycrikjournal 