thick folds of skin slide forward to cover her eyes.
drag the ground, swinging in time with each step
scent of one just passed spirals up the length
of her nose. Hard upon the trail of one she cannot see,
led by scent
(also unseen), she bumps against old tree stumps
head knocking with the force of her longing.
straightaways it’s a forward rush
trail turns and pursuit turns to pause, discerning,
then she is
off again, certain in her blindness.
neither day nor night, only Now
scent of God fresh all around.
She is the
hound who hunts, everywhere
trail, every chase an arrival.
Photo credit HERE.
This post is linked with Unforced Rhythms.