Messanger of God

The Pileated flies from tree to tree in front of me, looking back as if beckoning that I follow, nonchalantly hammering its bright beak here and here for a quick feed.  There is mist rising from moist ground swirling as it hits the humid air through which I swim, a distant rumble but no lightning as I count the seconds signifying distance.  No danger.  Under the thunder the thrum of the Earth, breathing.  I shift.  Grow wings.  Soar after the great bird, god’s messenger I have been told.  Sun sends rays like waterfalls through the oaks standing guard and below a white wolf that trailed me as I trailed the bird, stops, confused where I lifted off the ground.  Ahead there is a door through which I glide, charting now my own course, no one to lead, no one to follow.  The darkness is split by a red moon with an orange halo and farther out a purple moon banded with yellow.  I am surrounded by small creatures drifting on the zephyr on which I rise, their eyes a startling blue grey.  I think of my ancestor with those same eyes, the burning times, how she escaped in the end, made her home in the forest, fed herself full of acorns, wild blackberries that drew in their thorns, bee balm, mallow and teasel, slept with the old momma bear and her twins all winter long.  In the spring we wake, dream shadows buoyant as spider silk.  I reach out to touch her but she floats away and I am left alone to face the coming day.