Coming, going, these geese
Leave no trace
Becoming like the grass, becoming unlike grass. Like the soil that everything grows from. Being like the ground. Unlike the air and the rain.
A river of grass goes by, a river that the wind ripples like water. The water and the grass. And under the bright blue sky a deer walks across the field of view.
Why must we always leave the places, people and things we love behind, just to see what’s over there? And what brings us back to these things and places, to our many mothers, to strands of grass, to rivers of water, to the ground, the air, and the earth.
The sound of striking dry wood with a stone, a thump knock—to me the beat of a heart. The distance may be far. But it’s something we all share.