Primitive Prayer
I go outside at sundown, pinning the stained-glass trail to the Earth with ice cleats, glorious snow under my feet. The hawk screams above Creek Road. Does anybody live in that blue house? Hopper lonely, so Hopper lonely. The snowbank at the side of the road sits in the shape of a pew, but I’d rather move with the mallards slapping their wet feet, ready to fly. I’m ready. A songbird pounds his pipe organ in the sky, calling me up the hill. I climb breathing in the night air, revived by this primitive prayer. Published in Bluebird Word |
Artist: "Jenni" Guinevere von Sneeden, @j_w_sneeden
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