Claims become emotion the patient observer. I am not ready for the journey. I still pursue fruit, make juiceless nonsense, analyze—as souls do. Near a runoff, within a canyon, close to a raven’s nest, we might do ritual—séance, colorful visions, more claims, rabid emotion. Making feelings, starving for emotion, ripe for affection, those first few memories. We might make way through thickets, antagonize briers. Big mosquitoes. Crows as omens, celebrating the great century. Maybe we are talking about love. Maybe we are talking about nothing. Pablo talked about love. It was clear what he was talking. To unlatch a feeling, to turn it into manifest, to share a piece of the living. By dreams of mastery. By desire to be salt. Safe revelation, or unsafe love—minds painting old sentiments. If to feel fire; if to become swept into a whirlwind. It lives that way. It dies to itself. It mourns the horizon. It asks for love. It pleads. It begs. It lives. Mesmerized by voiceprints, brain impressions, all of a person makes an appearance. To put it in a sonnet. To whisper to insects. To converse with a canine. Many visions. To seduce eternity. Sweet – garden requirements. For any reason, song in my soul. Light in a dark space. Clarity of the shadow. Bears chasing salmon. Wolves pursuing bison. Daylight pining. Endless reaching.
