The moon drips its reflective countenance of liquid mercury, onto the shimmering shape of the Sound’s watery face.
Gazing into the Smokey Mirror.
Particles of snow issuing down in waves that look like how the pealing of bells sounds.
With my right hand, I slide my ballpoint pen behind my ear;
I sink my nails into the binding of the journal held in my left hand.
Recalling the conversation from my dream of talking to spiders.
We were in the orange, rocky desert.
There were seven but they were all of the same. A single mind working the seven bodies in tandem ala a Greek chorus.
I know you, trickster: I tell him.
But, see the form I take? Not everyone has me come to them in this guise: he tells me.
I see a feather rising slowly over his left shoulder.
The plumed serpent uncoiling from the stalking position.
A creeper crawling and a lengthy lurker.
I push my open palm into the loose powdery snow at my feet.
The icy give of the precipitation accepts the impression of my hand, creating a glove of cold.
I suddenly see the luminosity of this bardo.