XX  JUDGEMENT

I
The old world fades: the crescent moon
sets between the pillars, & the white cloud
billows from the night.

The golden path
winds between the pillars, as Coyote
blowing a horn, howling through jagged teeth,
calls the world to itself.

II
This day has
been long in coming –

the dancing bears emerge
from the forest’s dark to an unknown plain
& blink in its dizzying sunlight,

& there shall be the cub born
who has never known dark forests,
only the expanses of new & sunny grasslands,
there to grow straight as the grass
& gentle as the gazelle.

III
Whose trumpets is
the new year blowing?

Always ready to judge –
as time’s passengers, we notice time
only by the landmarks we pass;
we notice flowing water
by the twigs it carries,
by the rocks it swishes over;
we think
there is always time;
Coyote’s horn
insists there is not.

Whose trumpets? whose dreams?
Who writes the story,
who proclaims the bells?

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