Crow flies by the window,

his shadow tracing

the pale yellow wall

with a faint outline

marking flight,

calling for his spirit wing

and passing presence

to be remembered

for just one moment.

Paul Moss
Warrior brother, RIP

When men from afar

arrived on the broad river

rain pushed them down,

offended them in smoke filled lodges

beneath strips of drying fish;

they wanted what was from their past

not this ocean deluge from the sky.

To understand water is a gift,

its softness lifting in cold air

sweeping in waves along the river,

cascading on iridescent green needles

until the ground, the sky and water are one,

the sound of rain opening,

tenderness swelling in every drop.

Losing grip not letting go,

falling void yet holding

chord woven in light

to every mortal thing;

bend deeply not to break,

supple flows, rigid softens,

secret flower held within

waiting for its moment to unfold.

Land sloped up from a dry creek bed

where tumble down buildings faded in the sun;

beneath the willows an old story

imagined long before the journey.

Spike thorn tore our clothes,

thin gruel of passage the only food.

Climbing broken ledges

to draw what piñon rooted

from the rock strewn scree,

we followed clues, laboring to be kind

while something old and unborn

waited above the ridge line

calling us into the land beyond.