On the last Sunday of October,
the last fire of a setting sun
burns a hole through the top of the ridge
running north by northeast,
a red blaze flaming through the prairie grass.
As we cut through the first pass
south of Emporia,
where the Flint Hills rise
in a long grade
nearly as far as the eye can see,
Randa tells me to look at the moon.
It is already high in the southeastern sky,
a full platinum circle hovering in the pale blue
of an almost endless sky.
Below, toward where Missouri teases Oklahoma,
there is a pastel pink reflection
just before the base goes to a darker blue,
all caught in the low angle view
of a small pond.
A few miles before El Dorado,
with all of sun gone from the sky,
we pass by a small lake off to the north,
its polished surface
at the end of a rare windless day
an unbroken reflection of deep blue.
At some point,
with all of the rippling stirrings of Self
completely quieted in me,
I hope to become empty enough
that all anyone can see
is a reflection of the Light that lives in me.