singing bowls

dusky haze of sunset across the ridges driving north, where home waits in palo santo smoke & last warmth in pine air. heart light still pulsing hard from my practice, from the summer sun in your eyes; a ring of flowers, a braid of grass, every circle referent to this fullness; and the great maw of the open sky, leo setting in the redness of the west, the dippers arching our necks like a kiss; the song of the coyotes, louder than ever, more haunting even than the whistle of the train our ears follow east, to the clouds that move over the earth like hands on a body, the soil all warm & alive in the gloaming as astounded at our touch as we are; a quick light across the eyes, a sudden gasp in the dark.