Beluga whales bump 

to the surface

of rising waters,


knocking your grip 

from time 


nodding with a slow wink 


than any knuckle 

that holds your days 



Slipping on autumn’s slide

they swim toward their harvest

like a fistful of feathers

or bright, singular moons,

supported in the arc of their seas.


  So little depends 

on so much


when you trust your own sky.

Set down your ballast and 


as they glide through armfuls of 

flashing stars,

diving among multitudes


to surface at your side, 

blowing, inhaling,


as your own moon rises,

one full


at a time.

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

2 Comment on “Rising

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