Mantra

there's a certain kind of authority rocks that light can shine through held up by careful fingers one eye closed squinted maybe the other trying to reach out toward that impossible force the sun or perhaps the full moon other hand perhaps holding your hand or content in a dirty pocket does the season really matter it's so hard to remember it could have been early summer or just one of those dry dry springs there's a certain kind of authority the smell of the warming redwoods the pine needles giving like a mattress too big to find the edges wandering more than walking was there a river a stream some water something cool and chattering with diamonds its glistening more a sidebar than a sand bar that could finally save us damp sandy dirty skin the smell of it close by us and vaguely metallic and salty when the tongue finally touches down electricity undeniable even if you're alone there's a certain kind of authority even walking on cracked cement orbiting the same several blocks for hours shin splints your only companions well maybe blisters and calves like screaming rocks rocks you can see light coming through but there's a certain kind of authority to tromping along on your lonesome rocking in your own arms your radiant resonance and its particular kind of authority