Are we not more than our
eating, and drinking and shitting?
Are we just our moving and doing
and procreating?
Am I more than my dying?

I sat at my window and looked out
at the lazy day flowing into my garden:
the birds moving
from ground to sky to branch,
the swaying trees shedding bark
in the summer wind,
and not a sound behind panned glass.

I sat in this scene apart and spied a
baby bird dismembered on the brown grass,
and I am here not moving,
thinking in scenes and questions
about this thing, life, this procession
from birth to death,
and the wonder of looking
through glass at this unfolding,
and listening to my own breath.

 

8/2/2026