For Quetzal

Oh my sweet arany Quetzal.

My dragon queen,

I’ve been doing the bear thing these past few days.  You know…just rooting about for juicy grubs under rotted logs with my enormous paws, lolling about in the sun, chasing butterflies through fields of lupine and clover, crapping in the woods…and snout-fishing with my black, wet, schnuffle.  First though, only the bugs were biting.  But not even that could disturb my ursine equanimity.  I rested deep within prayerful silence.  I gave my heart unto the winds of heaven and in the rich flame-shadows of leaf dance on sunlight I sent my dreams into the depth of the cooling loam of earth where bear finds medicine roots and visions.  And so it was.  It has brought me into the presence of this delightful vista, grounded and refreshed.  In truth, I had gotten ahead of myself in my erstwhile enthusiasm—tempered now by purpose and the peace of knowing that my every headache is but a token of my  fidelity to God, and of Her undying, endless love and affection for me.   

And speaking of headaches….do you poor Torontonians still languish in the blazing sun?  Here there is no end to rain.  Meanwhile my once dear mother has gone berserk—is simply fit to be tied—and just about as comforting and as welcome within my consciousness now as any a mad hornet at a picnic.  In truth, I would be thrilled to be rid of the both of them, say until next Christmas, maybe?  After all, I have work to do, which work is play.  No time for sighs and groaning and the gnashing of the teeth of the fitfully damned and of the assorted lost in the outer darkness of cynical doubt.  No, I will have none of it now, and least of all from them. 

And besides that—I have been informed of the fact that my spider sermon contained entangled in its web of words an egregious Musca domestica.  To whit, twas Sir Walter Scott, not Shakespeare that I quoted, and quoted wrong, at that! For behold, where I said believe, he didst in truth put to pen and inkpot on the page, the very word, deceive.  Mea Madre!  Mea Culpa!  I don’t give a hoot’n holler though, so long as people get the point, if point there was one, which indeed there was.

So now, in the rain, amidst the clash of thunder…I will redouble my efforts.  All around me, the desert hills are blooming, the grasses like the kings of the earth, verdant as summer, waving golden crowns, bowing like wave crests in the earthen sea when the wind comes to undulate ribbon snakes up the steep slope of recumbent mountains.   We are the jinn of the clouds. 

Ah…my love, she threatens me.  Guess that means she wants to cuddle.  How then to write?  Oh bother, that!

I shall use her heart as parchment, my dreams as feathered quill, my song a light to guide her way.

Strange.  I had Quinoa porridge for breakfast, just after downloading my mail, and now—with apple-sauce, nutmeg, cinnamon and honey coating my insides…well, that isn’t at all peculiar, really. I am filled with this luscious, wistful, cloud-soft comfort.  That and an abrasive vigor occasioned, no doubt, by the yo-yo antics of my interior plumbing.  My folks are going out to dinner.  Oh joy!  The cook gets the night off.  That means, manly food tonight, namely--pizza and beer, of course.  I will hasten then from labor to refreshment.