Voices on the Wind
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.