A bird’s journey (re-post)

A bird,

after crawling through the thick pitch

of a dark sky for hours,

landed in an underground tree.

Like an albatross,

unstably perched

on a twig of attention,

this bird longed for

a familiar story

from out of the blue,

as told by the forever winds

that rise up from the heat

of whispers coming from the below

combined with the incessant flight-song

echoing from the within.

Hard pressed to settle down,

it twizzled its head

to falsely reclaim

what was so dear

about the action of flight

in the joy of flying.

As if we were being

brought into frame,

an awareness settled in

to the unexpectedness

of this moment.

With our senses on alert,

a beak is sharpened

against a near by branch

much like a human would pause

to stretch and flex

to get one’s inner bearings.

There is an intimacy

of self-observation.

Physical fatigue

calls for a rest.

Every next step,

no matter what direction,

would need full

and undivided attention.

So much history

into so much heed,

and so little application

as obvious.

It is like the alert

of wide-open eyes

is a darken cave

where the rods and cones

scramble their roles

to give support

from the light

that is available.

It is transcendent

to be in it

and of it

and yet we,

in witness from beyond it,

like sensing the enormity

of the cave

yet craving tactile

and immediate details

for anchoring.

That we as witness

have no method

of intervention,

feel useless

yet providing

in unrealized ways.

Is there a crazy wisdom

at work

and we as a whole

are also the evidence

undisclosed unto ourselves?

If it were I,

I would like to take

to wing

what talons my attention.

To fidget with form

as if every next touch,

even wing against a cave wall,

is a bead

in the mantra of life

presented to my consciousness

unfolding,

as a bird of prey

now in a life of prayer.

And to realize

that perched

in an underground tree,

is much like

the life of the hanged man,

giving me hope

that there are roots

in the sky above me

and that all as paradox

plays out.

And to crawl

is as to fly

is like how now

is as a glass half full

that prepares me

for what is to come.

And now feeds

and nourishes me

in ways I cannot demand.

For there is no demand

placed upon wisdom,

or serenity,

or anything to overcome.

All will come and go

and come again

and I am obliged

to surrender the remembrance

of the first time

to fully arrive

at nothing more

than now

but with more candle power

in my consciousness,

brighter flame in my presence

and not withholding

to the embrace of everything

as flight is dance

and dance is flight

and roots in the sky

that will receive me.