1) THE PATH

The path leads

crunching, winding, uncertain

through endless wastes

of most serene beauty.

Emptiness overwhelms,

breathtaking in its splendiferous solitude,

stretching from the near that is known

to unimaginable infinity.

Beyond my senses, what?

There is no comforting answer rising,

in that uneasy prospect

the mind reflexively pushes forward.

Are we all similarly struck dumb

before the vast mysteries lying

beyond our pitiable imagination’s

feeble explanations?

I fear the answer is yes,

yes, and yes, yet again.

Who cannot but remain mute

when confronted by the possibilities that plague us all?

As I stare, the path disappears

into an infinity of desolation,

as the sands of the Sinkiang

march on to some remote forever-more.

2/ A cry in the wilderness

The yurt is thin comfort against the bitter night.

As the solitude’s silence transforms

to ever deeper quietude, a cry, perfectly tuned

to scrape raw the soul of any man, rings out.

Soon enough, another howl, for that is what it is,

rises on the thickened stillness of the setting sun.

Somewhere out beyond both sight and primitive fear,

the answering song of a lonely Asiatic wolf rises.

I am endlessly amazed by how such a natural thing

as the cry of a wolf can pierce the civilized, steely resolve

of humanity’s most effete champions of human ascendency

to remind us all of our unspoken bond with every living creature.

We are, after all, the dangerous interlopers, armed with cunning

and rational cleverness, who violate the great plan of

whatever gods there be who order all things, great and small.

Soon a harmonious chorus of howls occurs. More evidence of that!

For at least another hour or so, the great Lupine chorus

fills the exhausted vacuum that lies heavily upon Sinkiang.

Alone, inside my yurt, I am content to listen, raptly,

in the dress circle of God’s great natural cathedral.

3/ Best seats in the house

Overhead, an infinite number of angels

dance on the head of a stellar pin.

The choreography is stunning, truly

the work of a master, as dusk grows into night.

From the dim greenness of my tent

to the breathless show in progress up there,

there would seem to be no words utterable

by a human creature to encompass the genius

of all that presents itself to us in a Sinkiang night.

But, as usual, I have attempted the impossible,

selecting words as I am always wont to do, to put

some simplistic context behind my stupefaction

over being able to witness this cosmic ballet.

My words, predictably, fail to capture the moment,

or even to do the most miniscule justice to what I behold.

However, when did that ever stop me, hopeless word-addict

that I am, in a world that refuses to be verbally

describable.

Instead, I sip my warm tea, overcome by the insufficiency

of my effort and finally content to simply sit, shut up,

and accept the hopeless task all fabricators of words

must invariably succumb to, in the face of such utter perfection.

Sleep comes easily, as the closing chorus of this

spectacular show ascends above the cobalt stillness,

comprised of so many four-legged, furry sopranos,

who bring down the final curtain with a howling crescendo.