And the mountain bears itself to the sky in silence.
And the stars fade and grow dim and wait for night.
In eternity, one does not struggle to find words.
In the forest, the moose waits patiently as we pass.
Bluets and daisies wait patiently, too.
Perceive the motion of all things.
Perceive what is inherent.
Who loves is grateful for love and thus enters the spiral.
But who ascends does not leave what is holy behind.
What is holy is the bluet, and the black raspberries, and the tracks of moose as they follow the trail to the river.
And the river is holy.
For what moves, moves in you, and in me, as we are in it, moving, always.
The letters go out and are received.
Who sings composes a reply, and who replies, sings.
The mountain rises up without forgetting its center.
Darkness does not oppose light nor hide what cannot be seen.
Who waits builds a temple.
Who selects a trail surrenders digression.
The heart of the mountain is its darkness and that darkness sings, as a letter sings buried in its envelope for travel.
For you move in me, always, and I in you, and our moving is holy, and extends the blessing of gratitude to all life, always.