To you: flexing intricate, succulent observations of the lines of matronly sycamores and the cursive pull of kites held too tightly – those things that reel the earth head over heels forward into the embrace of wind.
To you: thinking your self separate and one, your eye and words the womb of the world. What dazzling dark places do you hide with the light of your beam?
If no thought fell in your mind, no sudden, striking, singing of meaning, would the blue and white border of a nuthatch’s belly be anything other than his essence? Like immortal stone, his being here now, then no more.