Crystal Night Fog

The night surrounds us with a fog almost
as if history itself has crept into the valley.
Closing in and silencing our very thoughts.
Like some Atlantian dream or Incan landscape
in the days when Spirits
wandered the Earth visibly.
The night sits back and watches us wander
through the mist.
It reads our thoughts, sees our desires, dreams.
It prepares the future.
The night is a reality in itself.
One practices the game of survival.
Tries to ride out the madness.
Talking to the shadows.
Listening to the Owl.
Personal.
"Who?” means them out there, not us.
He already knows us.
That's the way the night is.
Some nights we pray.
The night contains our prayer.
Some nights the sky is crystal clear.
We see beyond, look past now, into the history of the past
and the history of the future.
There is no difference between the clear nights
and foggy nights except space.
The fog brings it all in so close.
We feel it. Taste it. Breath/suck it in.
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Even in our dreams: THE NIGHT.
The moon changes.
Stars shift in the corner of our eye.
Hurrying back in place.
Their reality changes at a different pace time.
We move in the midst of all our history.
The Age of Adam.
The Age of Baal.
Buffalo
Where is our faith?
The Natives have been killed off. Take their homes.
Create land out of their spiritual being.
You are here and they are dead.
And reincarnated two generations later to lead
the people to the burial grounds.
Egypt is not a pyramid lost in a burial chamber.
Denial is not a river in Egypt.
Wounded Knee is not a sports injury.

School of Beauty
Tantra Yoga
The stars still see thee.
The Buffalo waits over the horizon.
The fog clears for a minute.
We're not here. We're somewhere else.
Quite mad, exactly.
The fog closes in, but almost too quickly.
I see the Herd of White Buffalo seep into the edge
of the horizon before the clouds cover over.
Coming soon or sooner.
Dreams of being pure.
Dreams of a crystal light shining in/out of my spirit.
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and some nights by the fire pit
singing the last song
the embers low
fog in close
looking into some owl's eyes
A presence aligns with us.
Blink, and it is gone.
Egypt is dead.
Yucatan is dead.
The buffalo is dead.
The Ones who brought them aren't.
They made the fog.
Maker of Fog
Maker of Breath
Spinner of Webs that bind the universe.
The owl wonders out loud.
The moon shines on.
The fog moves in.
Too close.
Nothing is revealed.
HO!
Oliver Loveday © 12/31/79/1:30am EST