These Hazy Days

Somewhat Feathered

------ and then you're running

like an unbound mare through the forest

the river wild alongside you shouting

"Leave this place! Leave this place!"

and you do, hooves rapid on the ground

but in an instant your world view changes

and you're a snake now as the

wind dies low in the trees and

your tongue is flicking, tasting the

ensnaring odors of midnight cypresses -----

you're lying against the warm

forest floor, winding, turning

under the trunks which only ascend

the more you crane your neck -----

then to the east you see a mountain

shaped perfectly to a peak, it's blue

and yellow and somewhat feathered

and you want to go to it.

on a crossroads you pass a chariot

and a man gives you a map;

you search for the strange mountain

but you cannot find it in the

scrawls of black ink there ------

no matter, you're a free beast now

and you toss the map and run again

till you're gaining on the trees,

with exhilaration light and sturdy

in your chest you grow until you're human.

but hark, behind you lopes a foul shape

framed in a lichen arch and down to

its very bones it's

           somewhat feathered

and it's chasing after you.

your feet slip over the rug of needles

like it's a serrated sort of satin

and rain starts to fall and you're

beginning to tire and the

mountain ahead is cloaked in cloud.

you fall to the ground to catch your

breath and the figure simply

tramples you, and then it

tramples past you.

you watch it as it hurries,

as if it's a possessed thing,

to the east, where your

mountain stands in sea-dense smog

now nearly fully shrouded.

then from somewhere far off

the beaten path, you hear

the river telling you

it's time to go back home.