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a work in progress!

A suspended cliff just floating, as if one moved pebble would collapse the piece of work that had once held stampeding elephants and savage humans and mountains.  Yet all of this history is diminished to the suspended cliff.  Well, it’s really more of a plateau now.  Nothing more than a lone dove makes a stirring on the cliff, although that cannot even be heard over that jumpy tide that licks the shore.  The salty, light, ocean air passes over, through, and around the leftover brush. 

 

And this is why we flee.  Can you blame us?  There’s nowhere, nothing, left to be; nobody and nothing left to see.  It calls to us, the sea.  Telling us the place where our children stomped down the earth, pretending to be the Gods we told them about, was to be abandoned.  The place where our fathers and mothers prepared stews and deer and medicine for our cuts.  The place where our grandmothers embellished our moccasins and our grandfathers embellished century-old stories.