crickets chirping. a bird’s clear note. a star-filled sky slowly giving way to the sun spilling pink into the horizon reaching toward ever more blue. trees standing in silhouette until the light infuses every growing thing and the air whispers everything awake. these, at least, are truth.
man would hold that sparkling orb in his clasp of iron to covet and to pillage emboldened by the might of his arm and voice drawing on that glimpse of mind he espies from the shore never cognizant those verdant greens and vibrant blues are but the edge of all that matters beautiful and resonant with joyful purpose
Thank you once again to Eugi’s Causerie. This week’s prompt, “Round the World.”
i tread the soft path at river’s edge where trees reach up birds flitting between them, the quiet and the joy of this wild place brings me back to wholeness, it fills me. my spirit sings and spirit answers lifting me up carrying me on wings soaring ever higher past the leafy canopy of trees above the ever-changing clouds we sail through the infinite blue and become the explosion of stars and shimmering dust and mystic tunnels of space, so far beyond, all there, at the river’s edge.
these strings are tied to the pearly moon taut and limp with the pull of the sea humming out a thread of jazz bass in the winter deep or funky folk on a cigar box guitar maybe singing the long, sweet notes of summer
these strings they reach to the wind flying along with the birds and the clouds sweeping around this globe of colors wet with rain or frozen with dizzy heights or sailing amidst the whispered prayers persistently rising
these strings are still attached though seemingly broken again and again deliberately snipped or frayed to bare spindles with tension somehow and always tied securely underneath the heavy load of lonely emptiness
The birds begin to sing before the light comes. The voices reach me through the windows opened to the soft rustles and creaks of the dark hours. They pierce the magic time of furtive shadows, clear and urgent and free.
Is it song? Or is it speech? Is it utter joy? Do they call lovers, call children? Do they call me, call us, call all?
The strain oscillates through the air, an abstraction, cryptically enfolding me. The darkened space in which I lay irresistibly expands to the trees, the skies, the stars. I flutter up to the birds and sing with them the chaotic anthem of our souls. No beat, no refrain, no syncopation, no rhythm at all but we thrum with the cadence of life.
The birds begin to sing before the light comes. They sing the primal language, the one we all know. My feet and hands speak it, the tongue of the breathing earth, the pulsing star. We are all there together, for that brief moment before the sun snaps its fingers before our eyes, at the feral edges.
So dreams will have to do for now. Imagination defies the story to which we have agreed. Later, I will remember what we all know to be true, and sing again with the birds at the outer fringe of night.