Heron

So many, by now, have passed

on, passed on from me. "Well," I murmur

almost wordlessly, "shall I speed the process on, me too?" when, so many times,

the passing was brought on, hurried

on, in one way or another, like a shedding

of skins, a relinquishing of coils, a final bid

for clarity.

 

And, then, so often, every so often,

nature obstructs, saying "I don't acknowledge you, but look at me!"

as with the bird that passed

overhead, but not just any

common avian, but something exotic,

extraordinary, its neat complex of claws

picked out against a dying sky,

intense in contrast and definition,

hanging from the arches of its wings,

balanced in precision at its beak;

a heron, I yell inside, a breath of

change, a breath at twilight.

 

But why, why the silent intake, the wonder,

the evelation at this reveal?

A bleak thought: "does this intensity

of living, the life lived in this moment,

gain traction from knowing they are dead, 

and maybe locked out of sentience,

of beauty, of awe that can only be most felt

when played across the thrilled senses?"

Do I feel raised because they cannot see, cannot truly know what I am given in this sidelong experience? Is that why

I cannot give up this soar of moment?

 

But, what says they cannot soar, cannot look through my eyes and, prompted, feel their own joy?

Or, are they locked out of this random moment, this scope for tacit exultation?

Not knowing, just wondering, what happens in the hereafter, I seek, now, to hedge my bets,

and hold onto this that I have, in case

it will be lost to me, if I am, as with all others perhaps, to become

cerebral,

mental,

all mind,

in the great unknown of what borders this brief sojourn in time.