Outside the Marriot, San Francisco Bay, Waiting for Morning 1 It’s hard for a naturalist far from home. Voices peep in the reed beds in some hour before morning, and he doesn’t know them, great or small, hunting or hunted between the calm bay and the quiet stones. Up there on the mountains, he might know them. The mountains lie hidden in the night. He thinks for a moment he might be Adam waking obscure in the dark before the dawn he does not know is coming, all a strange calling and shimmering in the secret places under his feet, the roar of the airport on the horizon no different, a mysterious blaze in mysterious dark, a thunder in the thunderous silence, far enough off to give him time to resolve whether to approach, or fade into the shadow. 2 I’ve not honored you enough, great Night. On the western shore of all waters I feel the things that are alive in you– pale shapes on the wavelets, in the grasses shapes darker than the dark, while upon your encircling mountains– best not speak of that. (Dark Mother trailing the blue garments and the purple) The gleaming City is allowed there as a way of marking the dark of the waters from the dark of the sky, lest in their passing the creatures of the air and the creatures of the deep might cross, and the borders of the firmaments be breached. I came here to watch for dawn, and so I do. The darkness watches me, the sky shape at the water’s edge, the piercing infinite eyes of the boundless dome-- lighting the way to one dark door, seeing if I will enter, seeing if I, as the other times, turn away.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 12:16:09 +0000
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