To begin with, the sweet grass

1. Will the hungry ox stand in the grass
and not eat of the sweet grass?
Will the owl bite off its own wings?
Will the lark forget to lift its body in
the air or forget to sing?
Will the river run upstream?
Behold, I say – behold
the reliability and the finery and the
teachings of this gritty earth gift

[M. Oliver] —-

I have seen bats emerge
in twilight and soar like evening birds,
going home.

I have stopped to hear their peculiar song,
and am reminded of the song I learnt in school,
which I have always thought was bird, but is now revealed,
as bat.

I have seen how the quiet, persistent daily wind,
wake the waters into a ritual dance,
that softened rock,
and laid bare the delicate time-patterns
in its bones.

I have seen how rocks create life. And the hunger of life
to anchor into anything –
rock, dead coral,
even plastic bottles,
like a lonely emptiness, in the same striving,
to mean more than.

I have heard the noise in the dead silence
of an uneven sea –
a hundred thousand tiny mouths,

No one said that life could happen without death
No one said that death is the end of life.

The sunset made a rainbow, that made a leap to crown a cloud that is lined with gold.

Rocks give waters a song.