Your soul, my soul older than the moon once we gathered the dawn brought with us the newest year the wildest of flowers the oldest of souls. We meditated, prayed, waited until water was born, saw it bubble from the earth! Streams of liquid silver. So pure and bright. From our silver the birds learned to flow in flight, to sing, how to flit. To chirp. I can hear Crow outside my window telling the World how to pay attention, "Focus and fly right." Who made Crow the boss of the morning? Well, now that’s just one of my sly little morning jokes, a question that used to make John’s eyes grin while his mouth remained firm. Still. He was always so firm. So still. A man made of rock older than the moon Older than the birds. Older than old. But every morning, bright and new.
