Insects shrill. A thrum as of clacking bones.
Today tallies a long count of creation cycles.
On this winter solstice we climb our Sacred
Tree to enter wide zones of silence through
the doorway of darkness, our canoe riding
white rivers of night. The elliptic crosses
Milky Way precisely now, when elements
merge in a dark rift of source and return.
Cacti and palm leaves rustle dry in the ruins.
Terror cracks the heart open. Rivulets run
a scarlet sap to appease unknown gods be-
yond us. Blooming and blessing, this wound
wound tight round knots of surmise reveals so
little before our offering is received in sunrise.