Bird, with wings open to wind, to the sun, to the grace of the morning, something stills you, stops you, so that even a dog passing nearby, barking a warning or a threat your, you do not move.
You are focused intently either on something so far outside yourself or so deep in yourself, we, the passers-by, don’t even exist.
I didn’t even know ducks prayed.
Bird, you are the very definition of prayer, of meditation, of living in the moment. Other birds are swimming, enjoying the unseasonably warm day, but not you. You are singing your one perfect note of being and it harmonizes with exactly everything.
Bird, you aren’t thinking of the days you have wasted, whatever that would be for a bird, or the days to come. You have, at least for now, given up your goals: fly farther north next summer, take that trip all the way to Mexico. Dive all the way to the bottom of this pond and see, finally, what’s there.
You have released yourself from yourself.
Even if it is only for a moment, for a few minutes, you have found the exact balance between effort--your wings held wide, your neck lifted, your heart beating just a bit faster to hold the pose--and rest, the sun rising, the breeze mottling the water.
Let the day come, let it break open. Let us begin and begin again.
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