The last house on the block 

is made of cedar,

its furnishings burnished

orange in the warm

glow of lamps lit

 

against gloom, the sky

outside hung shredded, 

weeping itself onto the roof

in hushed patters.

 

Inside, she speaks of wolf

medicine, the kindling of vocal

cords, and shares the legend

of the Sacred Dog.

 

She tells me she's listening

for the sound of the owl

who bears messages

to land on the rooftop

 

and I listen too, glance

out through the rain

toward a stand of cedars

where perhaps he might nest.

 

It is a welcome respite

from the work we are doing

within these fleece-blanketed

conifer walls, excavations

 

of gnarled old wounds, a

stitching of hurt and healing

so rigorous it feels

almost sacred.

 

Prior pilgrimages closer

to home have left me lost

on the edges of moors,

my guides decamped

 

to unclouded trails. Now

this wise healer in her house

of ancient wood hewn

from surrounding forests

 

calls forth spirits of the ages,

warriors who once venerated

this land and who march

forth within the trees,

 

within the rain, the red

mud, and who confer their

wisdom on the wings

of birds.

 

Departing later, the door

closes quietly behind me

and, heading toward my car

I turn briefly,

 

let my eyes sweep 

the rooftop, scan

the branches beyond

one last time.

 

Through the undulating

mist I think

I can almost

see him.

                          - Anonymous 2019