Children Of The Air

One day, for lack of a better thing to do,
he sat alone on a large boulder that
held a tentative grip on the mountainside.
The view of the valley below was spectacular.
Whiffs of gray smoke rose from red brick chimneys,
an unusually warm December sun spilled over
cottonwoods by a glistening river; across the
valley and much higher than the boulder
where he sat, a second range of majestic mountain
wore a modest coating of snow on its twin peaks.

Here, in the hand of the earth, he sat as one
transported from the pleasant valley of his
youth and adolescence into the sacred vault
of the spirit world.  Here, on the sun-warmed
earth stone, he could not resist reaching out
to spirit forms that flew so close he could
almost touch them, revelations of Love's
presence in stone and sky and soil.  There,
lifting his eighty-year-old body to stand in
the hand of The Holy, he slipped into a
consciousness that comes so rarely, an
emerging reserved for those who
are not afraid to become wonder and awe
in the songs of children of the air.