Monday, November 7, 2011

Buzzard Point

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They circle, circling.  The sun slashing rock sends spirals in gusts under their wings.  They plane and wheel around a lit ring burned in the blue.  The star radiates and cleanses, the birds purify.  Cathartes aura.  We walked up there to climb, Wurzell, Whale and I.  But this prow of boulder stone is an altar of repentance.  We sat, consumed.  Like some vernal cleaning inverted to autumn - somehow very appropriate, the dying time, time to lay the forest fallow and start anew from short hibernation.  Time to let the blazing light pick your bones clean and shamble up rickety down the mountain, fresh-eyed to the fiery world.  Carry nothing un-needed, take that animated skeleton and ramble the twining trail.

I just moved out of my old house.  The corners were thick with a bundled year of baggage, much to jettison.  Now the rooms echo with a knowing wave.  I did my part.  The walls are scraped clean and my buzzards will wait until next season.  It's good to keep them handy.

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1 comment:

  1. They're watching to see when we stop moving. Good reason to stay in motion. I'm not ready to be purified just yet.