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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3350 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Journal in the Mountains Laurie Byro Another for Gary Evening after a snowfall, the temple gong vibrates through mist, our donkey brays in reply. We have not spoken in days. Instead, we have listened to the sound of snow falling from pine branches, to the wings of owls settling into the sleep of trees. You strike a match, against a rock. It flares, illuminates our faces. We light candles and carry them along the trail to meditate by a stream, sentinel to the deeper forest. We watch shadow-mice play, and beasts that appear as glowing eyes, yellow-red and green. A flick of snow could be the tail of a deer. Your eyes are guarded. Tonight, while the forest listens, we will silently shed our clothing. We will love one another quietly. We will thrust and hum, and if one of us makes a sound, we will blame a drunken moon. |
