No Slipping Into It

Collective instincts.

When given the image of a bird to follow, you follow. A pathway of return.

Dylan as proxy, his psalm crying out: I know I'm around you but I don't know where.

Crisp moonlight tangles in bald branches at 4 a.m. Winter's edge softens enough to go barefooted for a better view. Like the bears, a charted restlessness makes its way earlier to morning and later into night. In the quickening, a purposeful time of centering and contemplation becomes more important than anything else. There are no dragons or sea monsters ahead, but in the release of what is known, certain realms may require more deaths than planned. This cooperation is not esoteric, however, a willingness to fall or jump is required. I think of that time on the bluff overlooking the river, so close to falling, fighting hard to stay on solid ground. I no longer wonder if I would allow myself to fall if given the chance again. Deathlessness has already carried me away. Jump; don't jump. Fall backwards or lean in. Either way, there is no slipping into it. We decided this long ago, beloved.

I face east on my yellow zafu every morning and open to each dawn, now reaching my face earlier and earlier. Sun and savior, love and annihilation. The eagle flies by day and I follow.