I write as though tracing the rough transits and protuberances of an ancient cave's walls.

The Ancestors said: "I am this rock, this tree’s
golden leaves, this fly in mid-October playing
the last chords of its short life."

Archaeologist Steven Mithen suggests that the ability of Cro-Magnon People to integrate the brain's various modules "led to a dramatic change in the complexity of the visual symbols that could be produced.”

Crawling through narrow tunnels, lighting pitch-black galleries with small cups of oil, painting and chipping out animals from their sapient dreams; dancing perhaps, playing lithophones and flutes—they cobbled a nervy art and intrepid spirituality.

During the mid-1960s to mid-70s, when vibrant communities of young people were exploring the thrills of their consciousness by swallowing various psychedelic drugs, his was a vampire face, his foot was a lion's foot, his hand was an eagle's talon. He fell on me and his claws were in my hair, he held me fast and I smothered, Then he transformed me so that my arms became wings covered with feathers, most of which have been in nature's formulary for millions of years—updating the visions of shamans.
Here, too, monotheism missed a chance to combine its myths with those of the contemporary imaginal world.

This fall the forest is sprouting new stories. Leaves part to let a cool breeze through. I taste the sweetness of its breath, a sign that the Goddess is near, then consider the significance of foot-
prints abandoned near the creek.