Recognition

Not mine to understand nor mine to give:
a piece of joy beneath vanished hooves,
remnants of atlatl and bone who live
beneath the sandstone, an idea that moves
your mountain. Even the prayer I send out
to question stars echoes in my throat;
it needs wings a moist mouth to shout.

I know there is a choice. We watch the boat
drifting among the tides and the heron: it brings
fish daily and takes away the old
and restless. When it comes the heron sings--
no rough cracking but reckless song rolled
in wind and frog chorus. And as we near
the edge the calm makes everything so clear.