Out on the eastern terminus of Suturna Island, I crept
past tide pools and reams of seaweed and knelt
on the jagged basalt; knelt at the blue foot
of Mount Baker, before the spirit of heron,
under the eye of a sailing osprey:
and all my cursory science and measly philosophies:
exposed, like the rust on these rocks;
all my anthropocentric chuffs,
washed out to sea.
For what do I know about the consciousness of a sea hawk—
riding the sway of wind above a wake, or following
a spirant current from a great height.
And what do I know about the inner life of a heron,
its imperial reflection upon a hemisphere of water,
her patience absorbing the arc of morning,
a contemplation unfathomed by a Merton.
Or what do I know of the animacy, or even
the awareness of a mountain,
its powers of understanding, telling of glory,
its eons-old atoms, the same as my own.
I have so much to unlearn.
Ah yes! What do I know?
You and me both. Thanks, Ike.
His creation will always make me feel small, yet blessed, held, loved beyond measure.
Wonderful thought, thank you, Marcia.
our spirit exposed
we absorb mountain glory
heron awareness
thank you, stephen
‘For what do I know about the consciousness of a sea hawk’
Thank you for that, Laurie.
Love this! One of my favorites now for sure.
I’m truly grateful, thank you, Doug.
What a treat to slip into unknowing with you. Thanks, Stephen.
Thank you, Ann.