“Whereby shining, I have been, hunting Cibola, inquiring of angels, and I have found an ancient spirit in shiny metal, that brings me this winter from where I used to be.” – DS
“This is my winter song.” – Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson
He stands there a shimmer about him, unaware of our presence around him. He stands there beyond himself seeing mystery. He stands there receiving a word from the Lord, tilting his head to the left, listening. The ice-coated whispers enter his red cold infested left ear. We stand there too, you and I. Interested readers, voyeurs. Watching him. The boy surveying the steep snow-covered bluff above the ice filled river is nine-years-old. His brown worn jeans shift as he moves from one leg to another. He looks suddenly at a spot high above him on the bluff, and he is moving, climbing, and we watch him you and I, whereby shining he does go.
Whereby shining steeples in rows, frozen sand, some under snow. Climb the darkness, mount the helm, bring the shining and cast ahead. What child inside would make this climb, gathering snowflakes in his torn jeans behind. On upward, over ford, ice where no bridge, a stick as his sword. Somewhere here now higher, be still now his thought. For tracks in the snow, show something, what is not. The grace of elders, the crown to find. Saint George slew the dragon. Above in Eden, his dragon he will bind. A boy this day, O give us this day, to know, to grow, to climb on Saturday, December 21, 1969.
Whereby shining, half way to the top, a cold wind blowing in languages long sought. Each foothold a lesson, what has begun, can never be stopped. The object of mystery, the one at the top, the interest of passion, that is all that he’s got. The owl looking down says that is all that he’s got. To build legend in arid air cold, speak with ghost from society so old. A shimmer of metal from a place so high, an interesting shadow casting brilliance to the New Mexico cold sky. No time for doubt with the secret so near.
Whereby shining, the translucent moon is near. A waxing gibbous to the boy a sign is here. The icy waters of the San Juan below, he stares back at water, and watches it flow. His wooden sword it leans against his knee. He thinks he is better now, then he has ever been; the world of old has come to him. For in his hands he holds a meteorite, the sum of the heavens, and the source of his light. And from the beginning of what was him, the boy feels the light with what he holds within.
Whereby shining! – 12.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל