Not an afterlife, I think.
For certain not one presided over by the Specter, by mercurial and personal preferences,
For certain not a celestial cocktail party where Dave’s first three wives and assorted camp followers vie for his attention,
For god’s sake not some pious gathering,
Not a troupe of pre-judged, pre-qualified characters,
But maybe a vast and temperate pinball machine of spirits, a gentle bumper car ride among the energies of those I’ve known and loved,
More likely, all the three hundred billion or so who’ve wakened and stretched alive to sunrise on this planet, and then departed trailing clouds of agony and glory,
Animal souls, plant beings, too,
Mr. Noodle, Chena, Sooty Kitty, Bunny Boy, the defiant larch by the witch’s house that’s been dying and living since 1910. . .
Incandescent. . . comforting. . . kinetic
Cradled in this summer solstice Montana sky, light angling in from the four winds, the sun-rich scent of Russian olive and the song of the sun going down. ©
With important nods to William Wordsworth, Ian Tyson, and Rodney Crowell.
