The coyote pups cackling this morning.
The big white barn owl on the hunt.
Sounds like fun, playing wildlife.
While I play wildlife here.
Everyone just a step or two away from the elements, and maybe, certainly a death out there somewhere.
The ultimate drama.
The story told all life long.
What’s it all for?
There’s absolutely no evidence there’s any reason.
But to go go go further to absurdity and nothingness and beyond.
All intertwined, all going further and coming back and click clicking with what’s happening.
Always avoiding and ignoring the larger story.
Always denying the ego’s claim that it knows something.
Nothing is known.
Everything is evident.
Nostalgia is a specter, a ghost, a raider of today’s moments.
Looking back is a pastime designed by the cheated and the therapists.
The ones needing something else that’s not right in front of them.
So little truth here but what is in immediate nature.
All other palaces spun from a mind that, for some unknown reason, has settled on purpose as the flavor of the day.
The drive for the sheep.
The grass to graze.
The fuel for NPCs with no ideas of their own.
“Here’s an idea… Make the pursuit of a righteous idea your ultimate goal.”
And round and round you go.
Row row row your boat to nowhere.
Your merry go round past the same scenes you’ve always seen.
The catch 22 of purpose.
Meanwhile the coyote pups chitter and yelp for no reason.
They play in the bushes filling up with bursts of new holly berries.
Of round red seeds.
For plants and thoughts and sunrises and sets to go on and on and on.
And for man to trounce through and think he’s got it figured out.
