Two Trails
Twotrails/ Artist/ Storyteller/ Metiforador
Old Coyote Minus
12-23-02
It was beneath the Waning Moon of a Season Ending.
Two Trails left the cold, white city of the northern plains fully intent on travel,
And travel he did,
stopping for no more than short naps and infrequently to rest and warm and purchase or trade for a frivolous and inexpensive treat,
and to enjoy a visit with a colorful local,
Then he was on.
Through new and shallow dustings of snowy prairie that fell behind him
as hidden mountains rose before him,
until he rolled across late autumn orange and yellow, mountain strewn valleys
that lead him into the buff and olive desert, with its
familiar and blazing horizons
which tweaked his heart with familiarity,
and recognized him as Eagle at sunrise,
Son of Roadrunner with Fluffed Feathers,
Owl after midnight,
and primarily, foremost,
and ultimately,
The Incarnate Image of the Spirit of,
Old Coyote Minus Three Legs Himself.
He rested at nearly mid trip in the bubbling, warm and soothing comforts of a spring
In which, in the Moon when Heart Bleeds Tears,
Her Healing Waters had Melted the Icy Chill of Sorrows Touch
And Quenched his Thirst for Relief
And washed Clean his Eyes
Until the Waters Ran Red from Las Lagrimas Del Corazaon.
Once more he Relaxed in healing,
Remembered,
And Offered his thanks.
Rested, fed, and alert, he entered
the trails of the ancient ones,
from here on,
he needed no map.
Direction would be determined by instinct and question.
Cautions would be alerted by the look in the eye of the local dweller and fellow traveler
And potential Bandit.
Motivation fueled by faith.
Curiosity quenched by doing.
Happiness satisfied by life its self.
He shook with the grip of friendship and
Sang in the tongue of the indigenous when frequently challenged by inquisitive authority and Went eye to eye with potential trouble
and Smiled in silent laughter as the world consumed his periphery.
The trail he rode, to most, would be long,
and his manner of travel would challenge even the most hardy of Pups with half his years (and with All their legs).
But he was practiced and self assured, and with destination.
Through the great desert he rode as the cool days slowly melted into warm nights
Until the morning burned bright with heat and afternoon sweltered in sweat.
Until at last, he crossed the great range that led him to cooling breezes
And the ocean sunsets.
On and on along the ragged and mountainous shore line until he arrived,
road-weary, yet,
surprisingly refreshed.
He beheld the imagined vision of his destination within sight of eye, touch of feet, smell of breeze.
He entered the salty sea and rolled in and out with the swells and waves until exhaustion relieved his arrival’s anxieties and he fell into a deep and restful slumber.
A Season’s Ending,
And a new Season’s Beginning.
Twotrails/ Artist/ Storyteller/ Metiforador
Old Coyote Minus
12-23-02
It was beneath the Waning Moon of a Season Ending.
Two Trails left the cold, white city of the northern plains fully intent on travel,
And travel he did,
stopping for no more than short naps and infrequently to rest and warm and purchase or trade for a frivolous and inexpensive treat,
and to enjoy a visit with a colorful local,
Then he was on.
Through new and shallow dustings of snowy prairie that fell behind him
as hidden mountains rose before him,
until he rolled across late autumn orange and yellow, mountain strewn valleys
that lead him into the buff and olive desert, with its
familiar and blazing horizons
which tweaked his heart with familiarity,
and recognized him as Eagle at sunrise,
Son of Roadrunner with Fluffed Feathers,
Owl after midnight,
and primarily, foremost,
and ultimately,
The Incarnate Image of the Spirit of,
Old Coyote Minus Three Legs Himself.
He rested at nearly mid trip in the bubbling, warm and soothing comforts of a spring
In which, in the Moon when Heart Bleeds Tears,
Her Healing Waters had Melted the Icy Chill of Sorrows Touch
And Quenched his Thirst for Relief
And washed Clean his Eyes
Until the Waters Ran Red from Las Lagrimas Del Corazaon.
Once more he Relaxed in healing,
Remembered,
And Offered his thanks.
Rested, fed, and alert, he entered
the trails of the ancient ones,
from here on,
he needed no map.
Direction would be determined by instinct and question.
Cautions would be alerted by the look in the eye of the local dweller and fellow traveler
And potential Bandit.
Motivation fueled by faith.
Curiosity quenched by doing.
Happiness satisfied by life its self.
He shook with the grip of friendship and
Sang in the tongue of the indigenous when frequently challenged by inquisitive authority and Went eye to eye with potential trouble
and Smiled in silent laughter as the world consumed his periphery.
The trail he rode, to most, would be long,
and his manner of travel would challenge even the most hardy of Pups with half his years (and with All their legs).
But he was practiced and self assured, and with destination.
Through the great desert he rode as the cool days slowly melted into warm nights
Until the morning burned bright with heat and afternoon sweltered in sweat.
Until at last, he crossed the great range that led him to cooling breezes
And the ocean sunsets.
On and on along the ragged and mountainous shore line until he arrived,
road-weary, yet,
surprisingly refreshed.
He beheld the imagined vision of his destination within sight of eye, touch of feet, smell of breeze.
He entered the salty sea and rolled in and out with the swells and waves until exhaustion relieved his arrival’s anxieties and he fell into a deep and restful slumber.
A Season’s Ending,
And a new Season’s Beginning.