The birthing

The birthing Before the call of birth, my mind like a hawk sits perched on the tree of thoughts unborn, its branches bare and shorn, abandoned, gnarled, forlorn. It stands on a windless hill in a sky ever hazy bright in empty stillness-light. The hawk from dreamless time just watches the river below where soon it too will go, back to the life of flow. Closer now the river roar, rush of life from deepest core, driving forward fierce and blind, drawing in my drowning mind. Then the sudden crash of sight, deafening flash of brightest light, milk just flowing sweet like pain, softest breasts all gently lain. Beaked and angry lips now living curving toward their swollen giving thirsting, cruel – unforgiving.

originally published in Now, Vol 2, - revised Dec. 2006