Why is the squirrel not named wise in the fables like the owl? He twitches and rushes. He hunts vegetable nuts to save and hoard. He chitters about with a cranky bark. His tail flashes with nervousness. His eyes bug out as if in a panic. He plays silly games with the other animals. But …
Those that worship the soft morning opening triumph over the narrative of madness that gets played over and over again. Those that always see light gain true advantage of attitude over the hordes who wake with strife and wanting. Those that feed the flowers see each and every bloom. Those. Those. Those.
And if this universe, this one song, wants to know itself – wants to witness and celebrate its garden of unfolding;then what would an artist show it? The missed things. The mirrors that are passed by.The sound a moth’s wings make.Those of the crow, the bee and the shuffling sparrow in the bush. And why …
You don’t become anything in this life – this life becomes you. The sons and daughters you birth shine back your flaws. The birds chirp absurd songs that mirror your chittering thoughts. Their noises just as fruitless as the ones you prize as your own. And the environment seeps into you, seeking two things: Play …
Start this day. And what is to be started? A moving across a road and into small towns. Loving forward. Loving further. Driving to get somewhere but always being here. Always. Always. Always. You studied your here and always found yourself happy with it. Onward happy one.
