When the horizon

beckons the sun

and a pink sky

holds the Ash

in silhouette;

when still waters

reflect Woodcock

upon the wing

and the Heron’s

great blue matches

colors rising,

there is a “click” —

inaudible —

a latch unlocked

by precise combination

of timed events

turned carefully

by Source.

Gentle winds

blow from southwest

and there is a  “c r e a k” —

unheard —

a portal opening

(one of many) –

an invitation

to senses of

at least

the sixth order.

Who responds?

Might I cross over

to become a denizen

of all possibility –

to flit with grace and ease

among dancing orbs?

What lies there

in unfathomable dimensions

except parallel versions

of me?

Might I

experience them all

simultaneously?

And all the while,

here,

beneath a cloudless end,

would any one be

the wiser?

© 2008