Old men
sing songs
under a red sun.
Somewhere,
unseen,
a drum beats
deep in the bones of the world.
Their voices drone low.
Slow somber notes
that echo down the mountain valley.
They sing of memories
of days long past.
Long hunts,
hard times,
and the loss of friends.
Out in the forest
the vibration of their words
fills the trees.
An owl
takes a hare
in perfect time.
The hidden drums
quicken like a pulse,
sensing the blood spilled
for cause of life.
Even the small drops
that fall upon the moss
will be consumed.
Voices raise,
in both pitch
and volume.
Their faces
turn to the sky
and the rust color
that brings fire
to the lungs.
Nature is in estrus.
She burns hot.
This is the time
of violent upheavals,
in the stars
and on the Earth.
War, famine, and death.
All these and more
come out in an exaltation
that is as much praise,
as it is a warning.
The song of the old men
is sorrow
mourning,
acceptance,
and revival.
Death brings life,
just assuredly
as life brings death.
Now, all as one,
they reach
a roaring crescendo,
that falls
down to the tempo
of a slow river’s running.
The sun burns high,
faded behind a veil
of smoke,
and ash,
and fear,
and brittle hope,
dry as a kindling forest.
As their song ends,
the sounds of the valley
eagerly fills the void,
taking up its own song;
its own struggle.
Nature has lashed the world
in the throes of her cycle.
The old men
return home,
prepared for a new reality,
a new tribulation,
and the possibility
of many
new songs.
DJR – 2023
