Friday, November 11, 2011


I've heard tell that the great whales travel thousands of miles and that even their calls might be heard
a continent away by friends.
And the Great Whites swim the edge of continents like a deep water autobahn, the direction depending on the purpose, the purpose depending on the need.
I watch as the Canadian honkers get serious, and rank is respected. And today I read of the monarch butterfly.
Just now they are heading for trouble in Texas as the earth is scorched there and like Custer, they
should've sent adept scouts, or so the mind would say. But on a wing and tiny prayer they are a thousand feet up and clocking twenty-five miles a day.
They will go to Mexico, and I'm bettin they'll make it again. Those same few acres their Grandparents knew last year and their Grand kids will know next year, but this group has never known.
No matter, they'll ignore the science of man that digs deep in the universe but can't explain how a
butterfly gets to Mexico.
I think of migration, today. The need to pull up stakes and toggle your needs to fit the season and make
all the pieces fit for only that season.
Man was like this once, or so i like to believe. But we've become anchors tangled in our own roots and our ship flounders beneath our empty sails.
The seasons come and go while our beards turn white and complacent. We shingle the roof, chop the wood, decorate the tree, and sparkle our windows in spring-when the geese once more salute our roots from on high.
I guess this is evolution just before the finish.
If only our heart would burn again, stoking a fire to fill our sails, but we teach those that follow that forty acres and comfy lazy boy is the end of the game, and victory at that. And like fools, they believe us.
I think, perhaps, if the heart were permitted to take the reigns once more it might be different.
We might say this is not enough. I have a hunger that pains for the banquet and a need it's never known.
I shall leave this field of lush purple flower and forsake the easy milkweed where i might die fat and dare the scorched vastness that may lie in my way.
But I fear the heart has been silenced by the few who made us their slaves, though it's we who snap the locks.
And migration becomes folklore. A jig for the few we call insane and callous.
We, who once were the wind, and the leaf upon it, have become less than the tree and only the mushroom who camps upon its roots.
We've decided to tame the heart to make better sense of the mind.
We should've known better.
It is the heart that is life and knows best what life is.