Listening to Nakai

I.

Wooden throated flute song
winds no horse trainer can harness
travel back and forth soothingly, lightly, like
downy feathers floating
breeze back in spring, settling
nowhere, just filling a void
rising, fading, reappearing on horizon’s forehead
slapping watercolor granite mountains, bouncing
back into the valley invigorated,
reinvented, falling into Dawn’s cupped
hands, liberated from nightfall’s silent embrace.

II.

Nakai, I hear you, like whispering reeds,
notes bunch together only to push apart.
bear walks between us, claws bark
From imaginary trees—I shudder,
the cacophony sending me to smoky
dens, iniquity’s stepchildren,
elders cross-linking saplings and bone
to fortify structures shaping today’s creations,
a balancing act framing future losses . . .
still listening—listening to fluttering birds
on wing, sunlight’s noon advancement,
twilight’s amorous fan, starlight’s flirtatious wink,
spontaneously accepting the wavering wooden flute voice
nakedly shaking like a nervous lover,
clothes falling to the floor apprehensively,
yet in perfect accord with the moment