There are birds on the water,
birds in the air.
birds on the snags and the conifers,
birds flying down to the lake floor,
birds on the ice, half a million years old, that is
melting away
at the foot of the world.
There are birds in the air,
birds on the water,
birds in the bare-naked limbs
of the alders in winter,
birds on the ground overturning the layers
of last summer’s leaves.
Birds strop their beaks
on your half-curled fingers,
perch on your shoulders,
find bugs in your ears,
and bring grass stems, mosses and twigs to your
pockets and palms.
Birds break their necks
flying into your eyes
in the perfect belief
that that brilliant interior world
is as spacious and seamless and real
as the world outside.
There are birds on the water,
birds in the air,
birds lying dead at your feet,
never thinking to fear
that your eyes might not mean what they’re seeing,
your ears might not read what they hear.
There are birds in the air,
birds on the water,
but no birds in heaven
and no birds in hell
and no one to tell them the difference.
Not here. Not out there.
Robert Bringhurst
