It reverberates with a vast and low drumming across the hollow space inside the soul, occupying simultaneously the distance of the universe itself and the unimaginably minute.

In a space of good fortune and rebirth, so conjunctionally close to death—

It is present moment and past, both godly and cripplingly mortal, to the place that resides between eternity and transience.

Both golden with ecstasy and layered in the decay of sadness,

For a brief moment we are truly able to see it. So silently we stare at ourselves and everything there is, 


And we know.


With nostalgia already dripping from every moment and pooling at our feet in the regret of lost time.

on a heavy morning,
the birds sang
conjunctionally,

a faint sunlight
dodged the mass
highlighting
an old oak tree

an impending rain
was booed,
or maybe
cheered,
or preached,

the first drops,
the last wingbeats,
and,
in the old oak tree
a bird sang,
alone

he called,
he waited,
he knew