the breath of movement

a future remembrance, whispered in the wind

bend the fog into a lung and a half.
three-quarter health,
fallout from the road.

yes,
short of breath 'n' tired, hands out to the fire.
smoke in your face or cold at your back.
punch each can & set 'em on the coals.
damp night & cold. jaws clenched & cheeks tight
in the flat immobile faces
ghosting out of the shadows.

—how's the wood doin'?—
nothin' like hunting for firewood by feel
but 's what we'll be doin' before the night is out.
—beer & beans, it promises to be an explosive evening.—
boyhood humor but it still gets a laugh.
stamp feet & shuffle,
roust about for somethin' to sit on.
—toolboxes. in the truck.—
lookin' at the map all day but still
someone's gotta get it out again.

readin' inaccurate topo by firelight
will surely get you there.
almost guaranteed, if you know

the place is not down on any map.
—water safe to drink?—
—boil it. make do with whiskey for now.—
—ha!—

talkin' stories soon enough,
specific lucky breaks & lost chances.
the madman shaman who kept the whole camp up
complaining of labor pains.
the night the elk came & encircled the camp,
standing at the firelight's silent perimeter all night long, staring.
or the visitation of the owl, the priest & the angels.
…other stories…

stir the coals & put another log on.
point a stick at the sky &
follow the sparks up to the stars,
calling out the names…
many travelers, many journeys.

the trucks & wagons
full of rumors, plenty fuel & ready to go.
don't think they wanted to stop for the day.
the rigs, that is.
happy to get on into the high ground.
thin air, chill & dark,
but they're ready to run forever.
when the spirit is upon them,
there is no where
they would not go.

convoys, gypsy caravans,
chariots of the nomadic tribes.
footsores, boot leather,
grey–white canvas creaking in the wind.

in the shadowless pre-dawn,
the sky's whisperings.

—hold your hand up—
the breath of movement
never stops.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦   ♦