It’s swans…
white in the
flashing golden air
flaking off as sky goes
pink at the edges
and falling away
reeling away
in honor of the Death Song…
then

they’re gone,
and echoes flutter
and twisty fall
down upon
my upturned face
and chill each spot
they touch

with that fading Western Glory
I turn, and face my fire-pit
embers dead and full
of waiting bones

Ah, waiting bones, still and calling
crooning for my naked tired flesh
to lay me down on them
(extension of my bones’ face)

and those bones, those
cold glowy bones stark
dig me with rooty bites
and toothy ancient secrets.

I turn my face to see the Last,
the Last Swan soaring, lingering
watching to see me to my
earthy bed of bones

and then I give in
and give myself to those
greedy-needy hungry bones
who must have me for blood
and fertile fire for winter
for winter lasting thru

I close my eyes and sink,
a silver rain red and slow
smoking into that earthy
boney glow…and sigh
and trust the crooning process
of deep marrow…of deep bone.