I love transformations in the outline of a tree in strong wind.
Early poets, half shaman, half sibyl, spoke for this flow of our transformation into
animals, kinds of weather.
Light slants through fir trees onto this leaf, twig, spiderweb with magnetic
significance.
I'm interested in the resonance of disjunction, of one thing next to another, blue
mountain at sunset and yellow air.
The glow is an inner informational process connecting, moment-to-moment, in a
kind of spontaneous karmic outline, crow in wind, elms.
I mean peripheral vision, field dynamic like shapeshifting in my perception of
green butterflies and other shadows on grass.
I step off the path for blueberries, lean against mossy granite, my head brushing
low leaves, and see a thrush sitting high up.
The next phenomenon is not of my perceiving:
I am one with the bird's thoughts, patterns of leaves, the sanctuary of its unseen
comings and goings weaving around the tree live texture I can sense like a force
field, field of vision, its soul within the tree in the present.
Birdsong exists in realizable terms; if I were deaf, song is still possible, or on my
walk at night, green.
It's how I describe what I see, as I move along the surface layer of experience.
-- Mei-mei Berssenbrugge
from Hello, the Roses p. 45
