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.

Sunday, October 23, 2022

The Rock that Is Not a Rabbit

The rock that is not a rabbit suns itselfin the field, its brown coat that isn't furfurred with light. The rock that isn't a rabbitwould be warm to a palm but wouldn'tquicken or strain from touch. It doesn't achewith hunger or pine with rabbit-lust,doesn't breathe the world in, translatingscent into some rabbit understanding.The world is beyond its understanding.And yet the rock that is not a rabbit willoutlast the hawk banking above, the foxsloughing free of its den, the wheel nickingoff the road to disturb the gravel berm,the mower coughing up the neighbor's yard.Even so, its ears fold back against its bodyas if to make itself small, a secret,though when a breeze disorders the grass,the rock's stillness appears like wild motion.

--Corey Marks 

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