This morning, I watched the sun rise —
or rather, I watched myself move forward
forward uncontrollably into the sun
The owl went first, the one sitting on a branch across the marsh.
Then the giant maple, her arms outstretched and welcoming.
I seemed to step into the rising myself though I made no movement —
none that I could tell mechanically, despite the velocity of change.
The velocity of one thousand miles each hour, imperceivable —
imperceivable almost, except for the first bird who let out a gasp,
a tweeeeeet! as the she smashed into the first rays of light,
a joyful surprise at how quickly the change snuck up on her.
Or how quickly she snuck up on change — remember?
She, without a lifted feather of flight, raced forward to meet the sun.
The owl and the marsh and the maple went into the light, too,
a face-first dive into the oncoming rays, into the change of day.
How easily we forget this constant movement, this constant change
give up our own velocity and blame it on the sun rising,
roll over in bed to look out the window, tucked under illusions of security
think it rises to spite us, harumph at the inconveniences,
forget to marvel at the wild magic of it all, the whooosh! of day
the velocity of our lives careening without injury forward.
What is life without poetry?
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