Poetry

Step 18 (78.)

The raccoon jumps off my shoulders first,
and the crow flaps its way into the sky.
Fur hits water, but the surface remains unbroken.
The crow looks at me, and I feel its insistence,
so I
walk into the sweet oasis pond.
The water feels like nothing,
as in, it
dissipates like so much air,
and I find myself walking down sandy stone stairs.
Always the stairs.
Things flip around,
and the pond into which I walked
is now a pond with stairs heading out and away.
Snow with no cold clings to whatever is ground here,
and sand spires rise in supplication
to a yellow-orange sky.
An underground/celestial orb hangs overhead,
and it is light purple.
Pocked with pink.
No stars shine, but the sky shimmers with
something like hope.
Microscopic crystals sing songs
that pull me forward,
and in my march,
I spot tiny clawed prints –
my raccoon guardian guides my way.

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