The Far Corner of the Sky

What do your hands say to you? What do your feet say?

The trail opens in summer when crickets push aside the grass to sing.

And in August, when the first hint of winter shows in the far corner of the sky, the bears leave tracks that say go away, go away.

This letter, not another.

Our feet say travel. They say climb that mountain. And sometimes, lay down and rest.

Our hands say give.

Our fingers and palms expand to accept what is given.

Can you imagine a bed of wild down between rocks at the foot of a hill when the snow flies?

Is your body ever light enough to be lifted by the prismatic wings of dragonflies?

This morning and no other.

And the sun rises and the low clouds dissolve and the light is bright enough to read by.

And the neighbor's horse breaks its fence and comes over to graze.

Fledgling cardinals hide in goldenrod while seed rattles being poured into feeders.

This writing and not any other writing.

What do you feel? Can you say?

Would you ever go beyond that, to where I cannot say?