Tuesday, February 26, 2013

squatch thoughts, thurtee-siks

Take that feather, men, find it there at the root of that tree, and take it in them stub fingers. See me, men, take it as I do. Make big fingers small, make stub fingers fine. Like this, men, like me.

Found it

Softly touch it and raise it from that tree root to your blunt snout, men, and draw the smell of it in. Like this, like so. Draw deep, men, only not too deep. ListenLike me, softly.

You say it smells of sky, men, of wheeling birds on the wing. Yes, men, yes! Birds must wheel in the sky.

You say it smells like a million bird generations of sky flight, men. Yes, yes!

them words of men
You say it smells like that angel you find in them words of men? Men, that one soaring in warm sun, rising from the words of men and away from the earth? 

Men. I shake my head. I bare my teeth and knock fallen branch against sturdy tree. And knock again. And I howl at the treeline. No, men, no!

Listen, men!

Smell that feather as it is, not as you wish it were. Don’t mistake them words of men for that feather truth. Draw deep, men, softly.

Does that feather smell of the tree men? Smell it! Does it smell of bird hope?

That feather smells of bird dreams of the earth, men, of the homeground, not of angels. Leave the words of men; leave them men!

That feather smells of sky and earth, men, of that wheeling freedom and that warm ground that accepts my footprints. You see them prints, men, but you don’t see me; you smell the sky, men, but you forget the earth.

Draw deep and think, men.

What does that bird desire in the tree? Can you smell it in that feather? I smell grounding, men, that’s what the bird desires. Homeground is what that bird seeks, a nest in the branch, men, a tree life of roots.

them dreams of birds 
The bird plants its feather at the root of that tree, men, and that bird hopes that feather is a magnet. That bird hopes, men, but that bird wheels away, drawn to fly as it must. Desire is no match for instinct, men, but that wheeling bird hopes to be drawn back to the root, men, to that feather, and one day it falls, men, and that bird dies, men, and then it rests in the roots. Grounded in the warm earth, men. That bird desires what that angel flies away from.

Put that feather back, men, put it there at the root, softly. Don’t wheel bird dreams away.

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