Voices on the Wind Open Theme
Holy Tourists by Mark Vogel Ringing the valley five miles wide softened mountain ridges weave together two four five, blue white gray. Close enough, a hawk dips, and glides, mapping shifts of shadow, watching us locals here to stamp approval on this meditation world headquarters. Already we willing believers chant god talk, peace prayers, the unstated power in a breath. On this mountain edge, freed from our gardens, our clamoring children, we seek a cleansed path with stained woodwork, an open airy dome, a hand-crafted creek-stone floor. Before windows built for the long view we wish to believe a subtle humming can drain chaos away so us pioneers can step forth into the eddies. Who doesn’t want dissension smoothed, brochures with goals edited pure, a refuge where multitudes murmur a liturgy pounded soft by drums? For a sacred moment the hawk floats closer, ignoring us. We are elevated, aware how we have lived without guided texts, or a tiled chapel with stained beams. Aware too, that the singular vision with the power to dissolve has rarely been sustained. In our new enlightenment we see cows in the green pasture below, and feel further beneath the spotted salamander silent under creek rocks, the heron patiently watching at the pond, the horse oblivious to our movements, as we prepare to stream off again as individuals, back to deeded castles.