I fell asleep one afternoon
and in from the window
came the gentle sway
of warmer air, and the exhaust
Wails it’s way down Carlisle
and the invigorating breeze
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Oh yea, I was in Alaska last August…
Are we at the border?
Is it quite possible,
up there - over
the ridge - lays what
we’ve been trekking all
this way for?
Have we reached an end?
Have we finished the race?
The fog pulls back as the
winds from the coast climb
up these hills we have known
to be speckled with life
and dirt from rocks
eroded so long
before our time.
The ridge tapers off
and the sounds of yet
more wilderness
whisper, trickle
all the way down to us.
We’ve only just commenced
a journey yet to have
a conclusion.
We’re all waiting down here-
waiting for the spectacular show
to rage on, to capture us
in the awe of its performance.
And in that speckled mirror,
we’re all waiting for
something different.
When does it start getting strange?
The strange creeps in on us and
at times we don’t know what to
say. But I say let it creep upon us
and let our inhibitions die,
and let our inclinations cease,
and let us change
and let us change.
For strange is only strange to
those who feel strange feeling
new, for those who feel weird
when everything’s different.
I feel great. I’m a stranger now.
There are howls and cries coming in through the windows here
and all I can think about is home,
out there where even in the mountains crawling and
in the night sky flying, up above our earth,
silence is the noise of our home.
