The Coo Of The Dusk Dove

Somewhere out there

the picturesque desert is dotted

with a forlorn figure;

 

The buck skinned hunter gatherer

who finds his way

under the scorching sun

and against the sand storms

 

The only map in in his mind's eye

that knows the vast dunes

like the palm of his hand

-

There are no street names

There are no landmarks

and no trees

Still, he gets there;

Every time

 

It occurs to me;

I don't know him

yet, he knows my becoming

and the softness of the earth

beneath his feet

is sacred ground

 

My nicotine poisoned soul yearns

to borrow his cardinal instincts

for this lonesome search

of the self

whilst in my world

the coo of the distant

dusk dove still whispers

within me