Morning light diffuses in the mists of Yellowstone.
Blackbirds gather to feed on the insects attracted to the warmth of hot springs,
A few of them perch in silhouette against the pale blue sky,
Like the shadows of elusive thoughts.
The mists envelope me and cloud my mind.
I wonder if this is real, if I am awake, if sun will ever shine again.
I wander down the misty trail, eyes trying to pierce the fog, to see,
The bare bones, the tree spines, the souls of the forest revealed.
I am walking on hallowed ground,
The earth is renewed in this steaming water,
From the bowels of the earth the birth heat is released,
And then I find the life born in this place,
Evidence of generations of its kind nibbling on grasses, seeds, berries,
Parallel lines of black and white streak down its back
And end in a furry tail.
I smile at the chipmunk, my furry friend amidst all this steam and stone.
I know there is a plan, an architecture to it all—
Here in the mists, there is structure and order, and LIFE!