We are the sons and daughters
of the kings of the earth.
In the ruckus of the bluejay's croak
dwell the old gods.
In the swaying of stormy branches
dwell the old gods.
In the hoofprints left in a muddy field,
in the whirl of insects caught
in a shaft of sunlight,
in the reflection of autumn leaves
on still water, in the smell of
pine needles crushed
underfoot,
in the gaping mouth of a leaping
trout, in the scattering of
stars across the vast
firmament,
in the blood that sanctifies
the hunter's arrow, in the
blown bloom
of the dog
rose,
in the crash of the sea over
bladderwrack, in the
reverent silence
of new fallen
snow,
in the bright sweetness
of blackberries, in the
trembling flash of
an aspen
leaf,
in the shining globe of a grape,
in the billowing colossus
of a thunderhead
dwell the
old gods.
Their voices are our voices.
Their footfalls are our footfalls.
They walk with us, hoary mountain
men long dead and still full of mirth.
Titans crowned with thunderheads,
blanketed with cloaks of
new fallen snow,
their eyes
the
piercing stars,
and at their sides
the golden shafts of aspen.
Behold them.
Honor them.
Drink with them.
Avow our kinship.
For we are the sons and daughters
of the kings of the earth.
October 9, 2024
