A Tree on Purpose

The Great Blue Heron Leapt!
Then dove eagle like stabbed and grabbed,
Then set down and ate the catch the size of his head.

He knows;
I’m here.

It’s raining;
I’m in the car.

Not only has he noticed;
He walked over.

Always a straight line of sight for us;
I’m indicative of something to him.

A sign of what?
Friendship.

Writers build libraries from the inside out. So when we sit, take out pen and paper, (laptops don’t do it anymore, everyone types everywhere now), our whole aura is encapsulated by shushes from Hush Be-Quiet Librarian Sentries.

A Great Blue Heron’s pick of habitats: Library on a Lake.

People keep away the birds that bother,
Books keep away the people that pester.

How’s the energy? Mine I mean. For him? Lord, I exhale when I see him again.

He keeps coming back. Not to the same spot in the lake. The same spots. Where I am.

This energy stuff, this life and light alive stuff, this consciousness stuff, it works every way.

All is alive. All is conscious. What we choose to do with the energy given us is what we are.

I have to believe every tree is a tree on purpose.

I can’t define what, or how, or why I know it, maybe it’s the way that bird knows me, how he lines up a straight shot in my passing lane.

I don’t know the ball we pass or what the court is,
But I know we’re on the same team,

And I know he clears a way for me to get to him,
And I know that what is shared is returned.

But what that way is…?
What this floor means…?
What game we play…?

I don’t know what I am;
I’m not sure any of us do.

I don’t think this Great Blue Heron does either.

But when he’s in my passing lane with a clear shot,
I know without a doubt both of us are more than at peace,

In not knowing;
Together.