There are days 

when rage is a horn

and each blast blown 

across a blind scree slope 

echoes with fear, 

a shifting clap clatter

on unstable ground.


Let it fall. 


As it lands, a full curl among the 

blood-red bearberry,

life’s thickened skin 

opens its tender hollows,


inviting you in

to trace its seasons

grown together like tree rings, 

or scales,

or the shell pocked sediment 

of a stony sea floor.


So much gathers 

to hold us all


around these humming inner skies,

spaces fanned by life’s 


into forces far stronger, and

more powerful

than any echo.


Sound it off.

Allow your anger and fear and grief

to ricochet through you, 

becoming something new.

Transform slope and leaf 

and dall sheep horn

into kin, 

creating stable ground


for you too are this ancient

and this durable,

your moments

marked by keratin

and cliff,

a circling ripple of storied cells

spun round a windy light,

each a foothold, 

each a window

each looping back towards


with every rattling gust.

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