Last week my husband and I discovered cat tracks out in the wild. We were on the Uncompagre Plateau. The tracks were big.
Today, on the Glade, we had another kind of glimpse: a sudden rustling, and the brief sight of the backs of large yellow paws, disappearing in the long grass.
On towards evening, on towards morning.
In the sense that a poem alters consciousness, it is indeed a spell. But in another sense, it is quite the opposite of a spell. A poem can alter consciousness back to its natural state, prior to patterning. In this way, it is a spell-breaker.
Real security is not only being able to tolerate mystery, complexity, ambiguity, but hungering for them and only trusting a situation where they are present.
A day of sitting still,
and many sparrows
The Zuni woman
in long vowels
of dust and light.