DRY CRIK Journal

When dawn invades dark reverie
and hillsides rise to meet the light,
I take wing on all that could be
to find the grace for grounded flight.

Chorus:
            There is nothing out there beckoning,
            no tempting dreams rich with success,
            only circles ‘round a reckoning:
            that life is more when I am less.

Sweet the sound of wild awakening,
of forgotten souls that come and go –
I hear words to steal and sing,
meaning more than I’ll ever know.

As shadows dress blond, dry slopes
to hide the trees from July’s sun,
cities churns with human hopes
before it all becomes undone.

Come time I pass into that night,
into that cloud of timeless dust,
to be inhaled by grounded flight,
to find a grace that I can trust.