Sticks of sun. The leaves fasten themselves to branches. The idea that the world is created each morning is a beautiful one. It doesn’t feel necessary to ask where it goes at night – just that it is reborn again and again. I believe this to be true.
On my walk this morning, the same walk I did one week ago – the ground was twinkling with buttercups. Last week they were out of sight, rooted. Waiting.
Today they shone their faces skyward – smiling at visitors and passersby.
The birds sing a song each morning to call up the sun. Or if not the sun, the break of day. What is it that birds can see that we cannot? Can they part the clouds with their instinct, singing their song and flying from branch to branch.
While on the balcony, I closed my eyes – this is when the crows came to me. There were two of them. Each in their own tree. One was facing the lake, a wing flapping furtively or mildly – a balancing act was my guess.
The other calmly and quietly broke small branches off in its beak – in her beak – she felt female to me.
At first, I was concerned for the smaller bird’s nest to the right – but this crow wasn’t here for torture…maybe she was snapping twigs to clean her beak. Maybe she was on pest control and working with the tree to remove unwanted bugs. Their eyes, their beaks, themselves – so black – so shiny black. I imagine you can look through time if you stared deeply into their wings.
Did you know it was the Raven who stole the Sun, and found humans in a clamshell?
Here is the land of the coyote. The black bear – Chief of the foods. The fish – swimming inland within these lakes. The root – safe beneath the Earth – tender, satisfying. The berry – tart, sweet, refreshing – for pies, for wines, for colour.
The desert gives life to the meaning of nothing. It is us who cannot see everything beyond this moment.
Flowing. Falling. Chasing. Becoming. Mistaken. Judgemental. Here.
where rivers are born 