Life on Earth

One step and then another
we enter this cave of our dream,
this whirlwind of years:

    A cool day.  Wet
    after hard autumn rain.

    Above us the maples and walnuts
    arch black and almost naked.

    A river of birds
    flows south beneath ragged clouds.

How is it that our days
dissolve into this

    perpetual present
    like a vanishing storm
   
    until for an instant
    each gesture is sacred

    each small sound an echo
    in a temple of bone?