the moon waning in the pine tops demands i rise to witness the splendour of its slow slivering. spring is approaching: the pines' winddance is clearly visible now at 6:30, against the sky's pre-dawn day-glow grey, tempting me to join them for lauds. "o come," they choir, "let us sing unto the lord; let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation."
they know i will come. i pour my coffee back into the pot on the warmer, to regain heat after the chill of the night-cooled mug, roll a cigarette for the morning incense offering, and vest in scarf and poncho and warm wool socks.
i envy the pines' perfect reedom, serving as they do the lord of the dance while rooted in one perfect, holy place. they each hold rings of knowledge of this hillside beyond anything for which i hope.
and yet, i try to console myself, and yet i in my warm cell am also surrounded by leaves, the leaves of writings of a great cloud of witnesses. indeed most of them have come from the great red barn of witnesses called hillspeak on grindstone mountain just to the south, a few miles beyond my laundry room.
and yet i know also why i buffer myself with that cloud. the pines dance sky-clad in the mighty wind; i sit shrouded in wool and coffee. with awe i watch the pine boughs dance, rejoice to see the great silver-winged vultures give themselves yet another day to the wind. but i also shudder a bit, trepid as i chant the words "today, if ye will, hear his voice . . . ." i know that even the towering loblollies will join their brethren who have danced themselves into windfall. three of them lie behind me, their tops pointing towards grindstone mountain, their roots still clinging to great clumps of the rocky soil from which they towered.
above us all the vultures gyre in the growing light, their silver wings flashing gold and bronze as they catch the day springing from on high.
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