Thoughts become words. Words become actions. Actions become habits. Habits become character. Character becomes Destiny.

There are moments where i see life in an almost impossible form. It does not present itself as some rare beautiful flower, but instead as something that has run its course. The worn and rutted road. The gnarled pine, struck by lighting, that still holds it's green. The tiny mountain woman, shrunken by years, spotted but time... she stands in her brown, thread-bare dress with a ribbon as her belt, tied in a bow. She stands not so much in front of me, but in the face of time himself. I saw a lifetime of wear in her walk but she was at the market. The tiny legs from under her dress might have been a 10 year old's. I carry her now... i carry her. I am no different.

And it is imagination, that little god, that breathes life into the darkest thoughts. A heaving beast that bruises even the strongest heart.

There are those that live in the shadow of fate and yet others who live in the full light of destiny.

Pockets... whatever we find in our pockets tells a little story. I emptied my pockets out this morning. I found 2 dollars and 17 cents in change, a stone awl i found in the desert from a couple hundred years ago, a Bobcat tooth, some Dollar bills, a phone, the pen I'm writing with, a couple of cards, and a leather holder.

Hello. Hello. remember me? I thought that you'd forgotten. I have some things you left behind, I'm quite sure that you lost them.

I see your doubting, pouting face, and you've far too much to do.

But trust me on this, there's something amiss, and I can see you through.

So meet me in the cave... with the drawings... that are lit by the moon as she wanes, and hangs so low.

Its plain to see you're wondering, just how I can to know you.

But words alone will not explain, some come find me and I'll show you.

Yes, darling,
I am the owl in the hollow, on silent mothy wing. I am old, forgotten bones, i am the hornets sting. I am the willows and the shade that cover amber streams where brook trout lilt and tilt and dream their piscine dreams.

I am the tiny bones and leather wings that cause the desert bat to swing between this world and that where nightshades bloom and poor wills call out across the flats.

I am forsaken foot-paths that long for naked feet and fires and prayers and songs and dance and wonderful-thundering hearts that beat.

I am the emerald sound that tolls through fathoms deep the song that rolls from whale's souls where ancient sorrows sleep.

I am the humped and bristled boar-back beast that cause lip to twitch in fevered dreams I am the fury. I am the time. I am the both in twain. I am all that ever was... and ever more remains.

I am every glint and flicker out the corner of your eye and enimagos, changing worlds.

I am every hoof and lash and curl, from every beast in every time.

And you,

My child,

You too are mine.