Toward the darkening horizon, in misty internal storms, two minds alone reach out in search of wisdom secured only from the depth of nearing night where oncoming shadows hold sharp threats of extinction. He pauses. She falters. Both fall through the edges of sleep and tumble, bemused, into the corners of an imaginal realm where soul-stuff fires the flames of feasibility. Thought and desire freely leap about them, palpably present, growing stronger, more enlivened, under their gaze.
Joining the rhythm, entraining to the ebb and the flow of nighttime illusion and substance,
both enter a powerful singular reality where lowered eyes make it safe to dream and to bring into shimmering, clear focus the phantasm other. The lost, longing soul parts, visible only beyond time, loom large and blaze brilliantly.
The sweet sound of wing beats crescendo, painting a luminous sterling stream that eddies around them, transforming each to essentials: she an Indigo Angel, and he a great Silver Dove. Rising on delicate breezes, drifting around him, she drafts a spiral trail upon which they burst through to morning, alone again and filled somehow beyond portrayal. Thus preoccupied, walking toward a twilight street corner, he caresses an indigo scarf and she a silver charm.
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