i listen for the sound of their wings on the morning leaning towards their wheeling flight in an infinite sky, but there is nothing but silence and their silvered wings weaving the light of creation.
it is not the naming of birds, wings outstretched across the morning, that makes us particularly human though they say and they say (and we live our lives by they says) that it is our language that gave us dominion over all – but language was not enough to do what we have done. words…
articulating the bones don’t mind me while i sound your bones – listening for your stories of creation. reading by touch in the dark of night what shaped the animal you became, to see where your heart gnawed at the cage of your ribs when the sky was so big you thought you might explode.…
if the world is created by our breath by the words we speak, then it was the moon that made me this morning first light waning soft amongst the trees speaking me into the world. if the world is made by our breath and the spaces of silence between, then it must the sun that…