Saturday, March 13, 2010

It was the fire...

It was the fire that drew me. Piled limbs of dead trees, flames shooting heavenward. Oranges, reds and yellows licking and eating the dry wood.

It had been a long day on the mountain side, watching the trees move and dance with the wind and changing light. Glued to the rock I sat on, my body at the mercy in the chemical’s pathways, I understood mushroom consciousness.

I had eaten a few of the magic variety that morning with Barry and Jackson. We perched ourselves up above civilization but still below tree line. We talked back and forth, each giving each other about six feet of space, and just watched the show of swaying branches and moving spirits on the face of the ridge across from us.

I covered my skin from the high altitude sun. Drank water from a canteen all day.

Now, as the chill of nightfall seeped under my cotton shirt, I stood close to the fire the guys had built.

Suddenly, into the clearing came flying an owl, wings outstretched, beak open with screeching sounds emerging. She flew through the open field from one side to the other. We watched her sail over our heads.

“That’s probably the one we heard all day,” I said.

There had been hoots, off and on, all afternoon. We puzzled over hearing an owl in the daytime, and felt she had been an ally of the mushroom journey we all had been on.

I stepped closer to the flames, glad of the heat and the sobriety overtaking me. Was glad the journey was over.


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