pumpjack & pinwheel pulp

The llano awakens my soul.  

Pumpjacks bob up and down out of the mesquite.   I’m haunted by a spiritual insight I know they hold, attached intermittently to it’s mischevious, fleeting presence.  A realization I’ve yet to pull from the surface;  it escapes me for now.  White pinwheels spin across the plains seemingly collecting my reflections in a rhythm, pulsing in trust to what is powerful and invisible and incalculable.  [ Insert: all life here ].  And their accompanying realities. Followed thoughts:

Do frogs marvel at being the sole, buoyant heirs and heireses of the lilypads? Do ants carve out chambers in their tunnel systems strictly to give sacredness it’s own place to stretch out and breathe, a gifted emptiness:  this place to be attuned to the true, good, and beautiful enfolding and enlivening the world. A tunneled void for solemnity and stillness.

I want to smell more rainbows.

Wind blows,  pitched grasses and  whistling reeds the instrumental medium chosen by the ephemeral to serenade lyrical tones of earthen tambre.  It seems apparently foreign to her nature to perform highlighting soloistic voices, showcasing subtle ensemblic frequencies.  Unitive, collective praise. Moans and whispers of a chorus, reverie-induced and humbly excited to reply.  

Beauty lives enamored. Surprised. Not having earned or requested these psalms, but deservingly bestowed them.  We remain forever indebted in our beholding.


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