By: Joseph Bruchac Across the river from Ossining Prison hills hold the giant shape of a woman sleeping at the edge of the tide. If she woke and stood, lifting her arms to embrace the clouds, what would she see when she looked back down at the earth? Would her ancient eyes take in the sprawl of stone and steel piled by human hands, the roads that cut the skin of the land, the spiderwebs of electric commerce? Perhaps she would notice little true change, her vision wide with the flow of eons, human efforts less than drops of rain. Or would she perceive our pettiness, turn her eyes away from us to the sea where she might rest until again with or without us, peace can return. Would we even notice her departure, busy as we are with our intricate schemes, ignoring signs larger than ourselves, deaf to the seismographic tremor of true power passing, then lost from our dreams? By: Joseph Bruchac Leap up into sun, shaping the arc of a circle caught for a moment in air by our partial sight. I cannot tell how much they see. Do their songs hold more than our words can express, secrets deep as a sigh escaping from a sleeper's breath? All that I know is that they disappear back into the halfworld that is theirs, down into a darkness that goes beyond our light. |