Twiglet #290

Tourist Without a Dictionary

Beneath every mountain is a map flung but unsung by ravensong
or the witchcraft of  breeze-saying. When we walk, breath coarse 
as ice flow from this snow-crusted air, I stop on thigh-sore’s pitch
and turn to the view. There it is, the sprawl of our city, roof-tumble and 
tree toss and the tracks of human wishes printed 3D below.  Not like
in the bush where other animals make dents and smells surreptitious 
as the foot-fall of butterflies. They speak to me in star winks while
I blunder tingle-footed and knee-wrought through this leaf mass, this 
ancient cathedral, loving but not learning.

I know. It’s not enough.

Written for Twiglet #290 “ice-crusted snow”

7 thoughts on “Twiglet #290

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