Sunset

Conducting my way to spirit at speed of light,
I'm surprised to not meet any gods,
but I do see puffs
of being
condensed into clouds
like gouts of steam.

I think of tea kettles and clover
where minds are cups
and someone
has turned the cups over.

I have thought of hawks
high up in the clouds, screaming cries,
there in the ecstasy of thermals
at ease in flight.

Or is it just me dreaming?

But who then with spirit is scant
when it comes to scheming?
When to listen means not to resist?
When the merest test
is bound
to be some kind of gamble?

Some spirits bleed
and lesser spirits run dry.
Then rain descends
in the form of spiritual condensation
that offers strength
to both the humble and proud:

anyone who waits
that speed-of-light flight in the sky
where the white puffs bloom
like flack
as if you were flying a mission

and were forced to dive,
and maneuver to right and to left
and become a scream,
even if a virtual scream:

you’ve become a hawk,
make ascent up dark wind beyond stars
for a while to spar,
one-on-one, with the fullness of being;

then, without further warning,
are left to fare, as you did before
with traffic, prejudice, and taxes,
boom boxes blaring.