A Closer Distance

Eight swans lifted with white grace carrying an almost-frozen lake with them. I tracked them until they were out of view and realized only then I was holding my breath the entire time. In a closer distance, chickadees at play. The storm has passed and life slowly begins to return to its loud sea. How long can I remain in an outstretched silence?

A frozen and bloodied black cat lies dead in the neighbor's driveway. As far as omens go, I'm not sure what to make of that but it's heartbreaking and harrowing to behold. I light a candle for it which no one will see, but in my deepest knowings, I am certain it matters. It would seem, to grieve the death of every living thing is an awareness no one can bear without the paired and equal celebration of what lives. The equation in the end can zero-out if, in actuality, none of it is held at all.

blank sky
pouring it all
in urgency –
fall away and apart
to meet

Black ice – black cat – black oak. Six trees are marked for removal in order to relocate the septic tank and drain field to the back of the house. Six. Trees.

The sun breaks through for the first time in weeks. There was a time when the language of the cosmos was a part of our daily lives. Sun, moon, mountain and river – they spoke from the same soul and as we felt the wind on our faces or the cool waters of the lake, we heard everything they had to say.

How much longer can we afford to live on the surface of our own lives?