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 30, 2022

What Now

The roads have closed for flooding. The rows of cars are marbled in a mist. Watching gulls dive-bomb the waves behind the pier, the only thing that’s left for me is gratitude. Thank you for this. Thank you for the landscapethat’s not yet turned to dust, the wet gusts filled with clumsy birds and hints of sunlight,and me, soaking wet as well, allowed by the graceof what fleshto watch.

 

--Jacob Griffin Hall

 

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