for Bryna_  Each place is the end of the world.  This is the sound of what remains  out across long dusk,  your small fist of sleep in my hand  where a plain brown bird sounds  from the deepwood.  The tiny irreparable damage of living  is what I have given you.  By this sound be initiated  and see deeply.  Do not forget the myth of your body  for I once forgot mine  and the monk without faith  slept better than I.  Perhaps you will find what ruled me  after I am dead, for its fires  are still dark to me.  It is not skill, knowledge, intellect,  good luck or bad, but choosing  to feel the strange notes of our wildness,  for there is not nothingness  despite the easy magic of despair.  Read these woodsigns  hidden beyond the first steps  and regain our love in this sound.  Roads will never be closed to you.  We stand in a meadow of fireflies and timothy.  The sky lies pale with some stars.  