Montana Wolf

Monday, February 15, 2010

Ruffian Moon

She swamped me. Buried me alive under mundane debris. Pen, paper and the sweet quiet of my bed evaporated into lists and deadlines that raped the muse; left her staggering in three-night dark, desperate for bearings.

I returned to another rock crack; a six mile pilgrimage into ancient lands of the desert bighorn. Dressed in quick-dry sandals and shorts, my strong legs maneuvered through slick rock drops; water-hewn walls where the sun was lost. Sliding torso down wet passage; feet braced against walls in precarious chimney steps. Through wet sand and around small pools; I dropped down, down with gravity, faith-driven towards some unknown light.

The primal descent delivered me to a final pool, waist-deep in frigid water with an unknown rocky bottom. Teak dove in ahead on command; swam to a protruding boulder where she clung for several minutes until I caught up and we departed the water together. Two more narrow curves and the slot opened up on a wide sandy wash bejeweled with boulders, drenched in sun. I sat my cold-soaked body on a rock to dry.

Seven miles that day. Sacred seven and the season’s first canyon wren trill. Four desert bighorn leapt from boulder to boulder in the craggy mountains above. A historic presence, they have been here for hundreds of years. They, the spirit keepers of these lands.

We, a partnership of soul and body on the new moon cusp. Debris-free.

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