The serpent plucks the songline,

sending crackles of messages—

from the dancing northern lights—

carried by the hummingbird

awakening florets

in balanced spirals,

whispering the inflorescence

of our consciousness

in the mustard hues of the bloom.

With a snap of time,

revealing our dust of stars

in the sunflower field.

The hummingbird glides,

searching for resonance,

in each spiral

of reverberating tenderness,

aligning probabilities across the field

in stardust,

collapsing into the orchid’s bulb,

realizing at the foot

of the bodhi tree.

Still—

the ancestors of serpents,

in bottles of village whiskey,

ferment.

I trade yūgen.

My hand reaches out to find yours—

for cafuné in the vastness,

meandering with the breeze alone

in your desert.