Florida Mountain

I saw a Wizard cross the great scarred face of  Florida Mountain, He came against a witch, and both fell in shadow. She on her withered broom of black dust bore the pain of her trial...she, lashing, grabbing out...flung herself at him, a Raven kind of thing, his shadow then became, as stretching forth his terrible wings, a goth bird, all black as night crow. They fought there, in the light...his magic winning toward the heaven, where she could not go.

The fingers of Goth's claws rake the desert...Memories watched, recording what they saw, that each...the light, the darkness, in it's might...have their time...their equal balance, in everything. It is a circle finely writ as any art, sharply edged, as painted sand, chiseled where the wind, the master of the scene, seals its picture, both light and darkness chased...to do these things, as clouds squirrel by...to daub between the Zia and the bones, our mother left of her...her stones on Mt. Florida.

I was there today, the 'rockhound' eye, to pipe her love, through my flute, one bird returned from far away...and many others come, my thorn'd beauty, fear not...many others come. I am but one, and when they do...we fly, you and I. We fly to that forgotten place, where this began...in Paradise. I am alone. I am sad, for the mother, and the god, who created her and I...this creation buried here before our eyes, yet...no one sees the memories, or reads the signs, the sun and rolling of the stone...give.

No mind. No mind. Let it pass, for all things come again. I love you sweet lass.

The first bird of many...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, 2016 in Deming, New Mexico

Art: Google art, artist unknown