To my older sister:
I pick my head up an look at the road I’m on.
I turn around and look behind me.
People pass and pay me no mind, their eyes fixed on the ground.
Like mice, who know only what their whiskers touch….
When did I join the march of mice.
What made me cower, fix my eyes to the ground,
Wonder aimlessly with no sense of the road ahead….
Who plays the drum by which we march …I follow the sound
I crest the top of a steep rocky hill, to peer at the player.
I know his fiery eyes, his crocked smile.
He sees me and without skipping a beat he yells “back in line pig…”
With my own crooked grin I flip him the bird.
Bow to the east and spread my wings.
As I crest the trees he spits a beckoning roar….
The Great Mystery cradles me in the wind.
The sunrise breaks the peak of the eastern mountains.
It breaths life back into my soul….
I circle the river of Life
On its shores I watch otters play.
I swoop low … to ask them … the Way
-Adam J. Steele
