He stands atop the gate
and keeps an eye on me,
an olive thrush
— before he dips and dives
like all those fallen leaves,
to sift amidst the brittle beds
piled high beneath the trees.
He ducks and weaves,
dives and heaves within the swell;
he knows not how,
but does what must be done,
and does it well.
Just then,
he hauls a worm,
and flitters up to look at me,
no triumph in his eyes,
just happy to be alive, it seems.
He has no questions
for the rising sun,
nor holds a grudge
against its going down,
the moon, he leaves
to tend her business too,
nor would he lend a hand,
but to defend this moment's
urgent need, for which he
takes a stand.
In his near world,
I lived a while,
and there became a child again,
who sat atop the fence
with him, though rooted still
within my chair beside the window,
wondering.
Freed of all ambivalence,
in that quiet country
with no king, I soon forgot
my separate ways, the bitter pith
of words, the fevers of belief
— the burdens of remembering,
and listened to his sermon drift
amidst the scriptures
of the trees, soft and mouldering
upon the earth.