Late at night, I go out to the deck
to smoke a cigarette and
soak in starlight before bed.
The downstairs neighbor’s music
fills the air with temple bells,
Tibetan bowls on repeat—
lullaby romanticizing this view
of unpolluted constellations
and magical Whetstone mountain.
A midnight cyclist
surfs the Nordic track,
tires humming like a swarm of bees,
headlamp like a UFO
inside high-country darkness.
The bike buzzes past Slate River,
ignites a herd of Canadian Geese—
first toward the West,
then one to the East.
I wonder if the coyotes join in next;
I check for bats, though, it’s far past dusk.
Entrancing rings and chimes from below
slide naturally through both my ears,
roll of unbroken, fluid choreography…
the beat of its pulsations
rises like yeast inside of me,
swaddling my empty, lonely spaces.
Swamps to Mountains 