Refuse gatherings
A difference shows itself: first as a small crack spreading from end to end on the pavement; then widening, the earth opening a mouth. We argue lovingly about time well spent. One exhausted, the other energetic.
There appears to be no stopping the squirrels. Their foraging springs forth from years of hard-wiring. Constant, consistent action is their credo (though they think no such thoughts). Is it really a plan for the future, or a plan for the moment? To seek out the sweet meat of an acorn, selfishly bury it, regardless of the ease of its rediscovery, move to the next. The Creator's non-intentioned gardeners, we plant tomorrow's world with the detritus of our actions.
As well, there appears to be virtually no starting for the reptile lying in the sun. A percentage of everyday spent in stolid worship.
Dulling our teeth on a seed's protective layer, and in constant motion, we tend to forget the reptile's unspoken necessity: to bask in the sunlight, reflect, feel the presence of the spirit, wipe the sleep out of our third eye.
Youth slips through the fingers of those with open hands, sun on our backs, loosening the soil, examining it, an effort to detect the presence of the husk, the meat, the seed. Our intentions transform themselves only into our intentions.
It gets late and we force ourselves to decelerate, spend dusk and the few moments remaining, watching the last vestiges of light over the horizon. The sun is gone eight minutes before we can know, the last of its light arriving late.
In the almost dark we're motionless, left only with the pulsating of the earth as it pushes against the sun's will.
There appears to be no stopping the squirrels. Their foraging springs forth from years of hard-wiring. Constant, consistent action is their credo (though they think no such thoughts). Is it really a plan for the future, or a plan for the moment? To seek out the sweet meat of an acorn, selfishly bury it, regardless of the ease of its rediscovery, move to the next. The Creator's non-intentioned gardeners, we plant tomorrow's world with the detritus of our actions.
As well, there appears to be virtually no starting for the reptile lying in the sun. A percentage of everyday spent in stolid worship.
Dulling our teeth on a seed's protective layer, and in constant motion, we tend to forget the reptile's unspoken necessity: to bask in the sunlight, reflect, feel the presence of the spirit, wipe the sleep out of our third eye.
Youth slips through the fingers of those with open hands, sun on our backs, loosening the soil, examining it, an effort to detect the presence of the husk, the meat, the seed. Our intentions transform themselves only into our intentions.
It gets late and we force ourselves to decelerate, spend dusk and the few moments remaining, watching the last vestiges of light over the horizon. The sun is gone eight minutes before we can know, the last of its light arriving late.
In the almost dark we're motionless, left only with the pulsating of the earth as it pushes against the sun's will.