THE GULLS

I lie among the reeds,

looking heavenward,

– or so they say.

My eyes alive,

with admiration,

for the gulls,

of all beings. 

One after another,

yielding to the wind,

to the current of time.

All around me,

motion.

The snuffling pigs,

the shuffling cows,

the billowing trees,

the chattering birds.

A natural chorus of the season,

set to the quieter beat,

of the colder months.

A collective,

unconscious,

surrender,

to impermanence,

to fragility,

to beauty.

Ow what a task it is,

for ‘us lot,’

– those who declared,

it is ‘us’ and ‘them.’

The task of a lifetime, 

to find a place in the choir.

Please, 

by all means,

plunge your boots.

Deep in the mud.

In the marsh.

But the Dart still comes,

and the Dart still goes.

Each turn,

an invitation,

to mimic the gulls,

to cede to the season,

to notice the moment.