Alpine at dawn

When the stars reach down to kiss you, and the coyotes call
the day into existence; When bird wings cut softly through
the dawn and their pitched voices define the spaces between.
The dew-wet earth spins briskly, my friend, and what worth
your dreams? Slickrock and rain. Waterfalls that run and peter
and run anew. Spotlights in the desert, and faces all about.
These hands that know the rock are the hands of a holy man.
They know the hidden lines of this outstretched land. Raised like a
sun upon the upturned forms, they give brightness, and shadow,
and depth where there was none. They touch and can heal, have healed.
Have given pleasure, wrought pain, will give exquisite pleasure again.
They have reached so close to the burning heart of it all that only
bones shone and came back with hair singed. Reaching out,
they have held vulnerability like a stunned hummingbird
until flight was possible again. These are strong hands,
lined and tanned, sturdy like the land. But somewhere lost
amongst the leaf litter is a confidence that was dropped in the
staggering between. Must be found and so the sifting goes.
Pieces grasped, incomplete. The man in the dream and the faces around.
The waterfalls run once more. When you believe closeness can be
felt again, then the day can begin.