WHEN THE BIRDS CALLED YOU AWAY

Through graceful greens

by train-worn tracks

and lava rock

so sharp-edged black,

you walk the stream,

your naked back

sacrificed to sun.

You take the songs

we used to sing,

cast arms upward

to the young of spring;

their parents catch notes

on the wing,

giving sound to sky.

Your movement now

is formed by flight,

and flyways cross

through ancient night

where augurs' souls

turn into light;

the birds called you away.

SINGER

The song of the passenger,

regenerates the soul;

newspaper resting in his lap,

head tilted back, eyes closed,

whispers becoming words,

All is in accordance with harmony,

                                   he sings.

The song, like the drive

from Flagstaff to Prescott,

                        is familiar,

like the circle of bald eagles

over high desert conifers,

the Verde River unfolding

down from red rock,

and antelope grazing at the edge

of winter's horizon,

                        all familiar.

                                  His voice

breaks the silence of distance;

this song, repetitive,

                        like the road

                                       home,

stretches before us,

soft hills of high notes,

canyons of deep notes,

sound winding down,

                              gliding low,

a breath between worlds.

All is in accordance with harmony, 

                                   he sings.