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Midnight Sun

 

When the ancient, throaty songs

of sandhill cranes 

rattle, 

your longings left perched, gaze skyward —

stirred in clavicular curves

of dust.

 

In crossing that span of crane

and tundra

your rib cage cracks open, catches fire among

willow and rock like the 

cottongrass,

each head a bright cloud, aflame.

 

Within their call you hear

that truly,

your heart is held here, 

balanced by hollow bones and

a sun that never sets but 

rolls,

a fiery kiss at the horizon, 

echoing the light that binds us —

and you know suddenly, deep within your own

feathered soul,

that we use the illusion of darkness

as an anchor.

Yurt dweller, parent, partner, writer. Knows some things about medicine, life coaching, teaching, and the wilds.

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