The Force that Listens to Birds

There is, poor seeker, nothing higher
Than aligning with the strangeness of the now,
The mind with the eye, obeying the moments,
The flow of an unknown reason that stops us

At the pigeons, the way they are placed on the lawn,
At the match of cloud, chuparosa and palm.

Blossoms sing, and limbs conduct the bird wings
That modulate the sky to greater heights
—Are these but minor symmetries?
Or does our mind exist for these alone?

The unseen world that opens, the mind can't enter in
Except in symbols and in measures and as breakable laws.

The arrangements of the rocks suggests a sacredness
On these dry, unyielding hills of sticks and grass.
The greens of spring disarm us with their senselessness,
As what creates our meaning, here, will only get us

Falling short against the shadings of the wind
And the breathings of the sun.

We are still while
Silent fields go on ahead to greater mysteries.
We leave our lesser lives behind to see
For one caught instant, with just our captive sense,

What afflicts us, makes us long to possess this lover
Who turns into the structures of our own desire,

For we've been left alone, all along,
A force that listens to birds, and calls it song.
We can't hold even the mountain form.
Our blazing philosophies fall dark.

We turn to the brown of the sky,
The green of the sun.