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jhana
by James Dalton Byrd
The Creator speaks
in the silence of a forest
and I,
a hunter,
sit still,
- quiet -
and listen.
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
my consciousness.
The hot blood
of bear
and wolf
and deer
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
that you
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
to myself.
First published Georgia Poetry Society annual anthology.
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