First visit to Gladstone

Chinook blasts

gallop down from

jaggy peaks

saddled with the sound of

water, tumbling

over rocks, in the heart

of a forest of creaking giants.

The wind’s hooves churn up

the absolute silence.

The indifferent gusts

ride on for the prairies

and the applause of grass.

In the resumed totality of quiet,

a kind of quiet that allows you to hear

your soul’s tinnitus,

the mountains preach grandeur glorious.

The warm nose of a

Golden Retriever comes to

sniff in my hand for a pat,

as if searching out a field mouse.

I pray a whispered prayer

so as not to disturb the holy hush,

“What would you like to give me of yourself, Abba?”

In a wind, warmer than any chinook,

not uttering a stutter,

He comes with a kiss.