Walking in March


Walking this path with the sun a few inches from the horizon.  Were there people?  Mostly there seemed to be dogs.  They strain their leashes, and the people shout.  And the dogs shout at each other.  And then they shout at the dogs in the surrounding houses, and then the dogs in the surrounding houses start shouting at each other.  Also children, squealing, straying.  And bikes.  And joggers plodding by, seemingly seeing nothing as they gasp for breath.

But if you walk long enough you will see the dogs and their people leave, and the children vanish, and the joggers dissolve, and the bikes become intermittent, until each is a whirling apparition of lights.  Even the west wind dulls to a tender whisper.  And if you keep walking still, you will meet the object of your desire: twilight.

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I have been a nocturnal creature so long I do not feel the earth going to sleep here in the final blush of daytime, but waking up.  There is stillness, yes, but do you feel the pulsing all around?  It is the atoms of the air crying for starlight.  We have all stopped talking to the sun: instead now only deep listening to the moon.

It is March and twilight in March in the high desert is its own universe, one that should fill mouths and dreams and imaginations for generations.  The earth is still brown and in direct light looks brittle, but look again.  Ostara is walking, and at twilight I hear her siren call until my blood is pulsing in time with the melting mountain snow.

I am her student, her disciple, her devotee, her child, her shadow. I feel the pressure inside the swelling buds in my arms, I memorize the shape of every blade of grass in its thrust, I impress the smell of melted snow into my cells.  Nothing has changed, and yet everything is new, and old, and new again.  Even under cement, the soil sings and swells, and tells me things I cannot transcribe.  And as I drive home I weep for the beauty of it, and for all we have forgotten, and for all I still cannot hear.