Mouth Of The Meadow

What madness we are

In all our curious climbing...

As Musch Meadow's mouth opens

she has an ancient tale to tell

of the slow burn of sudden sun

awakening the yawning of petals

their colorful morning faces

still sleepy wet with dew

She speaks of Chumash magic

and the playful frolic of thirsty fawns

still lingering among the tall, dancing grasses

wandering ocean-down

seaward toward the dry bushes

where we lay down our footprints

the marks of our appreciation

The rattler coils with anticipation

as distant drums beat in the heart of man
Wickedly ominous the ravens circle

above the heat of iron and sandstone

with eyes like a beaded rosary

wary of the sin beneath the cross

Nymphs slide the mossy creek bed

joyful in their smiling mischief

singing of Dead Horse Trail

that welcomes the peeking fern

and the man root that drapes

upon the weary oaks

And we are all one in all