My Name is Winterhawk

Now you are in a train dining car rolling to some glorious ancient city near a sea and snow covered mountains seeing wide open snow covered fields stretching to infinity. Inside, on the table are wild yellow flowers with pink and green stems. Click, clack.

Shine the light. Be light about it.

The train passes through memories of a Starlight domeliner and C.C. reading your palm - head line and heart line - rolling metaphorical memory. Sweet contamination. Dancing elemental rivers, sagas and oral transmissions near empty bright cold winter fallow fields as children stand bundled, waving goodbye at a station.

Long ago and far away in a language of land, ancestors, wants, needs and desires lived a heart filled with soft eyes and a wisdom mind of intent. 

Wnterhawk wingspread read air above winter's glide. I am free to live wherever I want. My only small imaginary fear is leaving the sky. As long as I stay below it I am safe. Do you remember flying when you were little, like now?

When, once you let go, how the air filled with wind welcomed you, how the calm air created endless space because you had no memory about it? How it was all instinct and feeling,

this bliss, this sensation

of being in the air passing through a long black tunnel and how a small white light waited for you and it was easy this glide like a smile or an echo

sensing the crisp vapor of rising steam off a river, the blue-green liquid of your dream landscape zooming over rising red rocks inside winter groves of tall quiet Aspen trees singing their bark, branches wavering

as your quick flick of strong delicate wings brushed their knowing, their patient reflection

dancing inside star trails because in your vivid Winterhawk reality you are destined to remember everything as the sky welcomes your wingsing.