My Brother Running

I hear a voice from the mountain.
I hear words in trees, wild flowers speaking softly, 
summer remembering winter,
the moon hiding in the forest. 
Someone running, not my brother, 
not the moon swimming in the lake, 
not the lake breathing in the trees. 
A moth clings to my hair.
Stars open windows in the trees.

I have seen a white horse in the river.
I have seen lightning in the horse’s tail. 
In the next valley, horses are galloping 
across a shallow river, across the meadow 
where the moths are born,
the eyes in their wings opening. 
Everything we have loved is here,
in the valley where the bridges are watching, 
where the highway carries the river
beyond the mountains.

The coals in the fire are like red faces, 
the voices in the stream like blue fire. 
When night comes,
the trees vanish and the river sleeps.
Each moment is a place we’ve been before, 
a city born of its own voyage,
a village rising into being.
The openness of trees, the secrecy of mountains. 
My brother running along this path, forever.

Read more from Issue 15.1.