27 May 17 – Sunrise

Where did the loon find its hollow call?
An echo from the hills, from the caves within.

The heron answers with silent wings,
skimming sands of time-space,
hunting silver salmon rising with the tide to greet the day,
their glinting scales carrying memories of moonbeams.

All awakens in its own time,
All fades in its own death.
The universe is the ultimate recycler,
So when will my words come back, and in what language?

If I could choose, it would be the hallowed call of the loon,
the echo of the hills,
the cerulean reflection of an endless sky.

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