The cloud to the north of the sun
is a color no name can name.
I refrain from the blasphemy
of trying but not the praise
I feel in being in the presence
of the unnamable before my eyes,
within my heart like a prayer
enticing me to dance what
is beyond the realm of words
but not experience. My love
for words is only equaled by my
distrust of them to capture what
may not be caught like the color
of that cloud just north of the sunrise.
Hootism: when technology overrides the human there’s a problem.
“. . .Hoot finds the stark lyricism in tracking animals through the woods.” from the Kirkus Review of Poems of The Mad Hunter and Other Tales
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