The wild geese hone their language
over the Columbia slough, spearing the voices
of wildness into my chest, sharp and alive.
If you can marvel with me how
their wild orations turn the season,
you are my kindred Autumn soul.
Come meet me here on the Plains of Untamed
Mystery. We need no name for each other
there but friend, but pilgrim, but God.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021
Thank you JPW! Wonder full. B read this to me this morning... gale
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