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by James Dalton Byrd
The Creator speaks
in the silence of a forest
- quiet -
The Creator's voice is carried by the wind
moving through winter-barren trees.
It tells me of the dreams scrabbling
through the sleeping brains
of chipmunks and squirrels.
The quick discoveries of lynx and fox
leap into and out of
The hot blood
runs through that ancient river
flowing within me.
"As long as you do not chase the quarry
merely to cause pain and fear...
as long as you do not waste my gifts...
as long as you recognise
are as much a part of this forest
as the rest of my creations.
As long as..."
The voice enters,
seeps into my heart,
and reveals me
First published Georgia Poetry Society annual anthology.