The first hour of morning is upon me. The birds trill their song, a cacophony for the constant noise of bypass traffic blaring tranquility away… The night calls resolutely its truth (my instinct) pouring down upon me if I’ll but pay attention… (Remember, fear is not an option from here on out, Mark Richard Prime. Fear cannot swim with love… it hasn’t the legs for it.) Love drowns out the traffic momentarily and I swim with a lovely spirit, not the first, mind you, but the last whose hands I held in solemn vow. Her spirit is more in tune with Love than any other I’ve imagined in this life. She is a miracle. Life, to me, is full of miracles, particularly those that have come round lately. Boom goes the drum! Blink goes the trumpet skipping along to its joyful sound! Enter nature’s sounds to put a lid on all of our foul noise that we might again begin to sense The Mother’s plea… Magnitude is a bashful and vacant word as substitute for what will come if I don’t heed the call. I mu
(The Weaver's Song)