Monday, November 2, 2009

The Ancient Voice

The Dying of the Light
Oil on canvas, 8x24

It's November, and I am hungry all the time. I'm dieting, but that's not the reason. This hunger is something more primal, something ancient and deep and unconnected to today or tomorrow or what I had for lunch.

This hunger is about caves, and the thick skins of animals. It's about nestling, curled with my brothers and sisters in the curve of our mother's belly. It's about hot breath catching in clouds in the frigid night, and about the whipcrack of trees as the frozen sap breaks in the winter wind.

This hunger feeds on fear and darkness and the sense that nothing will ever grow again. This hunger knows no satiety. It grows from the gnawing knowledge that snow will cover the plains and keep the herds from roaming, and unless this hunger is met now, it will consume us all in the deep of winter.

It's November and I am hungry all the time. I listen in the night as the coyotes howl and I know they are hungry, too.

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