An Old One Walks

Snake walks with that old squiggly stick,

walks slow down by the waterfall,

from stone to stone down by the waterfall,

shuffling on his bare feet

while dancing on the edge of it.

Now shimmer that, now shimmer this,

while now just one,

an Old One steps the beat of it.

How may he walk with that old squirmy stick?

Soft, soft he goes,

and gathers sun.

Soft, soft he goes,

he has no bones.

Soft, soft he goes,

and gathers wind.

About his neck,

a bone flute hums the flux of it.

Something congeals and flows.

Snake says, just spirit matters.