It came rushing toward me across the paddocks
all I had to do was stand—the moment roaring
silent and ancient, collapsing into bloom.
How it called to no one, especially me, beyond
Ages and years to come, turning a germ
inside my chest into a vast and intimate riddle.
I carried it with me along the fence line.
I shared it with a line of ants. I followed them
down to a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.
And it suddenly seemed so cruel to me as they laced
across its veins, martialling through its open beak
to feed upon its eye. That none would protest
the injustice of it and refuse to eat the meal,
that life could be such a cheap award—wings so
easily broken. I cursed the unrelenting wind
that blew with such neglect, the infernal pitch
beneath all silence ringing like a grating laugh.
I tried to bury the blessing of existence there
but sometimes it rushes back—answers in harmony
with perfect questions, rhyming without a word.
Like Sunny the old horse who I tempted with apple,
although he never took a bite. He would just look up
then stare at the horizon. Sunny never spoke.