holy is the touch of rain on morning skinnew woken to the mist hung world holy is the sunbird, iridescent voicein the murmuring trees. holy is the dew hung leafoffering green prayersto the morning. holy is the mudslip wet and dark with life,warm with the season’s turning. holy is the songshared breath on our lipsshaping…
it is he who waits silent on forest edge – twitch of muscle under dapple tree light, horns curved like the sickle moon. there is no seeing him until on an exhale he lowers his head, looks at you as though he sees the galaxies within, shifts his weight to the other hoof and under…