Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
SAVING THE FUTURE into black of night with no moon by Dick Bakken She’s out here alone going on nothing but star glow and gut, each footstrike a spark of brightness down this long skein of road in the membrane of combustion. Focus, that’s the ticket. The map already laid out above and within. This is the long run. All the way through. Blind. Out here alone. Give me my heart. A little spot on the earth, a bit of dirt to meet each stride coming down. A thousand spats. A vast night of sparks, dear Lord, swallowing this black snake of road. Each inner roseburst an incandescence to flash every bite of breath and rice I’ve gulped into this flesh, out and up from swirled genesis fathoms with your wind kissing past me like time enough, all those violet eyes my witness. Aching down dawn’s purply rise, she spots a campfire away across that yon hillside, then another, another, and another . . . as gasping she passes the crumpled promise to all these hands, wet warrior singlet heaving, and just pitches over breathless across her patch of our earth.