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.

Friday, September 11, 2015

Mute Swans Over Carraiglea


Four with their white wings,
wheezing a refrain, following
the black coastline. All life
lifts to their passing.
Seeing them is not dependent
on eyesight, sensing their musical
flight not dependent on hearing.
Each wingsweep bridges silence.
The leader flies higher and the others
stack below to step down so the first
is last, the second, third.
Harmonics are also involved.
All life knows this more than
its own sentience. All inanimate
presence shudders under the force.
Rocks shimmer, Carraiglea shudders.

--John Kinsella
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