Grace.

Age Sixty-nine

I keep waiting without knowing 


what I'm waiting for. 
I saw the setting moon at dawn 


roll over the mountain 


and perhaps into the dragon's mouth 


until tomorrow evening.

There is this circle I walk 


that I have learned to love. 
I hope one day to be a spiral 


but to the birds I'm a circle.

A thousand Spaniards died looking 


for gold in a swamp when it was 


in the mountains in clear sight beyond.

Here, though, on local earth my heart 


is at rest as a groundling, letting 


my mind take flight as it will, 


no longer waiting for good or bad news.

Often, lately, the night is a cold maw 


and stars the scattered white teeth of the gods, 


which spare none of us. At dawn I have birds, 


clearly divine messengers that I don't understand 


yet day by day feel the grace of their intentions.

Jim Harrison