When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

. . . To Hana

The dullness from the sky shall set, despite the buzzing

dragonflies, upon our precious memories and close the lids over our eyes,

and bid the final long goodbye until we meet again anew, as lovers do,

as stories playing out in time


Above the isle, the dormant clouds, sentinels proud and old tell stories of

an era gone, forgotten, absconded, shared no more, not in the open,

not without embellishment in the currents that cultivate the isles


They watch, these sentinels, keep guard alongside the streams below,

they watch and take heed, keepers of a legacy, encountered in chants not forgotten,

in pride now forbidden, a history rewritten on the face of a distant mount,

culture appropriated, integrated, embezzled, exploited, made part of something ambitious,

younger, growing, effervescent, brutal


life evolving, for better or worse, paving the way for fresh beasts, their infant days,

their rising appetites, the bees with the hive mind and the billion stingers,

for a dead ringer for madness and revolution, change and perseverance,

freedom and oppression, spearhead and winger. For a sweet, fiery

rearrangement of archive and love.


The dullness of the sky shall set upon our precious histories and change them,

adding contours and layers to the legends that keep us alive, and the world

will be transformed yet again, a composite puzzle of enormous beauty,

all of it founded on the simple premise of complexity, on the principle of change, come what may.