Kendra

untitled

The red mud
is washed off the toes
of my rubbers,
diluted
by the puddles on the shelf.
It smells
of wet grass
and
masses of ice are attempting
to break
their tether
down below.

I hold your battered hat
on my head,
fighting the pull of the wind.

At my hip,
the Eagle Feather
twirls
on its own axis,
reaching toward rough
red cliffs,
then falling back
again.

I look over the edge
to see the ocean
running into the sky
at the horizon.

This is the place where
the divine
touches
the mundane,
producing one vast
earthly miracle.

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