The hour’s splendor is story. Intricate
as the sun casts
his web of light, the wind its breath, the spider her silk.
and in their netting of time
I become a wren
perched on a fence, watching
tall grass lean toward the pines. their trunks exposing
the wood work of beetle or worm. Totem-esque
carvings that call
night spirits home from their journey, mother birds
from their morning hunt. Memories from my tribe.
And in this daydream strung
between corners of the field
I become a leaf
drifting toward the ruins of a mission
and clinging to its wall.
I feel the pulse of prayer, Voices
of blue nuns who prayed
two centuries before. Their plainsong echoed
among night birds and stars, coaxed
cactus blossoms to open
and sigh with fragrance, expel
the soul of a maiden
who had escaped their tutelage
and become (as I remember)
a white-plumed moth.