Last night I was kept awake
by prayers,
fragments of gratitude
and connection tumbling through
my mind and fingertips,
the light of the nearly full moon
insistent outside my window,
beckoning me to feel.
This morning I sat beneath
the gray sky,
feeling the wind stir across my shoulders,
listening to chainsaws and crows
and feeling bubbles of creativity
surface break and rise,
the restless sensation
that everything is possible,
but that I am small and human
and only have two hands.
The leaves on the walnut tree rustle
and sigh,
the logging trucks groan and grumble,
and a crow alights on a branch
in front of me
black form a swaying silhouette
against a gray-white sky patched with leaves.
The first miracle of being
is that we are here at all.
The second is we get to watch it unfold.
