The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Vespertina Cognitio

Overhead, pelicans glide in threes—
their shadows across the sand
dark thoughts crossing the mind.

Beyond the fringe of coast, shrimpers
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest
against the day's losses. Light waning,

concentration is a lone gull
circling what's thrown back. Debris
weights the trawl like stones.

All day, this dredging—beneath the tug
of waves—rhythm of what goes out,
comes back, comes back, comes back.

--Natasha Trethewey
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2 comments:

  1. Spirit on the WaterOctober 31, 2011 at 11:24 AM

    When I was at Hendry's I saw, maybe ten times, a string of three or four pelicans flying in line along the cresting waves, thier wings touching the water every so often. Such a routine sight but so entrancing to one who had missed it for so long.

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  2. svengali2November 2, 2011 at 2:40 PM

    There's a promise (to oneself mostly, wherever one's soul wishes to be) - L'Shana Haba'a B'Yerushalayim!

    You'll be there.

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