Sailing into the night beneath the big dipper’s spout
a dragon and a dove fly within each other’s wake
and I tack north till dawn comes starboard.
Silver streaks across white cotton skies.
A hill’s edge turns black silhouette and the shadows become arbored spires reaching out to the rising light.
A cock crows, a crow calls to hidden brothers and then the quiet.
Not a leaf twitches.
All are holding their breath awaiting the coming of the light.
It will come, it always does, a holy thing giving of itself freely.
Not a thing out there but a glowing deep within every cell of our being.
With us at birth and at the closing of our days.