The bird flock there
Is what it is, it is
What it is about --
No flight from doing to being.
While this pyramid, perverse icicle,
Is an echo of loss,
at a remove
As long as it lasts
from its sources and reception.
Index of time, waste,
A pyramid's a symbol of course,
Also a last rite
And an oppression.
Vitality, you see, is with the starlings --
But what do you know?
Their mandala, if so it be,
Is lost on me. Not for my eye its elegance.
In the end it's dull to watch while birds,
However well coordinated, mill around.
Pharoah's great folly is handy,
Its beauty close as dust.
With thanks to Jody, Liz,
and Paul for the idea
Pertaining to that Falling Tree
in the Proverbial Forest
Descartes who thought
and therefore was
might once, in being, have seen
the majestic loosening of old roots
at the slight touch of woodpecker's
feet on a far up branch,
the internal wooden crack,
the upright body's slow drop
towards a bed of tree leaves.
The tree was surely beautiful
the next morning
when the sun shone upon a patch of
green moss on its rough surface.
Eventually, the inside core, not brain
but useful rot
made a home for an old
and watchful racoon.
The question I have
in my absence
is not whether or not the tree
made a sound,
but why, in all of my years
I have failed to be present
|Starling Flight: Lit from Within
Taken together, their flock moves
not as the crow flies and not as the shortest distance between points
(beads or mines, crops or hands)
not as arrow, not as pointer tapping to the blackboard
but something else – in itself:
its eventual passing
over a dark pyramid