the quiet voice of ... Joseph Ceravolo

          







 __________ Woods



    The hawks float over us
    two next to each other
    hunting us all day
   to tell us we live and breathe
    the harsh woods,

     and the deer scent pervades
     justice, honor, freedom
    in that sacred spot inside.

      The hawks on the air
      we on the sphagnum
       of this bog in
      reforming the earth.

     We stop, we stalk
    the ancient trail in the rain.
    The flap of wings,
    the song inside mixing
    with our heated eyes
     and insides. The hawk

    like Hermes follows us.
    It is everywhere, it is nowhere
       follows our inside eyes
    follows beyond solar winds
     beyond golden shadows of death
         to a common eternity.

—from Mad Angels









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