I looked up and there it was
among the green branches of the pitchpines-
a ruffle of fire trailing over the shoulders and down the back-
color of copper, iron, bronze-
lighting up the dark branches of the pine.
What misery to be afraid of death.
What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.
When I made a little sound
it looked at me, then it looked past me.
Then it rose, the wings enormous and opulent,
and, as I said, wreathed in fire.
We look at death and it returns our gaze. Then it moves on and looks past us, for death is not an individual pursuit but an interconnecting light that burns in us all. I like Mary am tired of the wretched days where the bright beauty of birds cages us, instead of setting us free. Maybe we choose to bypass wonder because the ache of love and loss burns us so deeply that we do not want to rise from the ashes of our limitations day in and day out. The red-winged blackbird rises always in fire full flamboyance, why not us?
What sounds do you make so that beauty might reflect your inner divinity?