The Edge of the Wind
The gull glides
With the freedom to seek its own destiny.
It moves by instinct
Beautifully through the air.
It has no beliefs that it would die for.
Hanging on the wind’s edge
Wings grip the sliding air
Suspended over the teeming crowds.
But I am the drifting skid
Of the edge of the wing
Slicing through the watery air.
I am the shriek of the pebble
In the distance
Screaming to be heard.
I am what the tree reaches for
Hung through the endless sky.
Turn your head and take delight.
I wrote this long ago as part of my mystical series. I was taken with the idea of flying was really perpetual falling. Yet in that falling was freedom.
I was taken with the idea of living in the now instead of scheming for the future.
I was taken with the idea of consciousness. What was alive? What was the mystical element in the universe?
Shouldn’t we, like the gull, delight in the moment?