They’ve been there for four months now. They’ve become familiar.
Like a freckle. A
part of the whole. Not really noticed. Standing out only when
somebody points them out.
Or when its time to wash the car.
I’m not ready to let him go. He licked that window on the way to
his last visit with the
vet. His DNA is in that saliva. I haven’t yet decided if that’s
all he was. Doesn’t feel
like it. I see him licking that window. I feel him licking my
face. I hear him whining. I
feel his hair, the rough skin of his toes, the shape of his head.
I remember his last haircut.
He was unusually calm. Hardly fussed at all. It was like a ritual.
I caressed every part of
his body. On his last night, for the first time in years, he tried
to jump on the bed. He fell
off and landed on his back. He looked embarrassed. I giggled. Then
I patted the bed.
He put his front paws up, I grabbed him gently around the stomach
and lifted his back
legs onto the bed – just like every other night. He lied on his
back, I scratched his
stomach. He turned perpendicular to me, his bum touching me - as
always, and we went
to sleep.
I see him running up the stairs, stopping at the top, looking down
at me, wagging his
stubby little tail. I can see him running ahead, turning around to
make sure I was coming.
That’s how I remember him now. Always looking back to see if I was
coming.
I left your DNA at the vet and I keep looking back. It doesn’t
help. I can’t find you. Did
you run ahead little man?
I don’t recall when it began, but I think I might be getting
carried away. Today I started
swerving to miss caterpillars crossing the highway. I don’t swat
mosquitoes anymore – I let
them feed – watch as their bellies grow plump with my blood. My
friends want to lock me up
for busting their sugar sweetened, wasp drowning torture chambers.
I can’t open the gate –
won’t open the gate – because a spider’s web blocks my way. It may
as well be a web of steel. I
cry for the butterflies and dragon flies, and all the other
splattered bugs on my windshield.
I always thought God was on the outside – until now.
God has been crying a lot lately.
Is that a loon I hear?
asked the rabbit of the deer.
A moose and its blare?
of the deer asked the hare.
Is it the wolf that we fear?
breathed the rabbit to the deer.
Then what is it we hear?
begged the rabbit of the deer.
As the rabbit’s heart tore
Is that a loon I hear?
asked the rabbit of the deer.
It’s not a moose you hear,
to the rabbit said the deer.
It’s not a wolf you hear,
to the rabbit said the deer.
What is it we hear?
to the rabbit wept the deer.
It has the haunt of a loon,
a longing so clear.
To the heavens it hails,
sharp agony’s wail.
Ripped from the heart,
all spirits it sears.
You know what we hear,
to the rabbit cried the deer.
Do you remember the day
when my son went to play?
Do you remember the sound
when his body I found?
the doe said no more.
I imagine the crash of thunder as the construction of a shattered
sky. Lightning as a
brilliant revelation – Lightening rays from elsewhere. And the
vibrant rainbow an
ephemeral, ethereal promise.
I often dream of slipping through the cracks.
Imagine her long lathered tongue pressed against the throbbing
artery,
gently, briefly, before ripping into the proud buck’s neck. He
twitches
while she savours the thick, salty blood gushing down her
throat.
The stag’s brawny heart pops in her mouth. Her jaw quivers.
She is pleasured by this offering; grateful for the antler
tangling branches.
She gorges, then calls her cherished remaining pups to receive the
spoils.
She briefly recalls the others: one given to the bear, the other a
runt – dead
quickly, kindly, in her jaws.
The air is sharp; the snow is crisp. She darts through the forest
they share.
Her blood is heating. She will take the male again soon. A
handsome beast. Strong.
Strong pups.
A faint scent of the fall’s salmon still on the breeze and the
musty odour of the bear,
asleep in the earth below. She hears the doe, and his fawn,
nipping and then chewing twigs, and the thrush of a sparrow’s
wings.
Her nose moistens in the lush spruce scent of evergreens.
She touches the power, as she climbs upon the age-old granite,
protruding
high above the steaming river. The crescent moon clasps her
heaving heart.
She screams out her joy.
The woman awakens, grasps at the afterglow, and it fades.
She slips her arm across the empty bed, sighs, and falls back to
dream.
She arises to a quiet house; the richest on the block. The kids
are gone.
She doesn’t see them much – busy lives: one, a receptionist at a
tannery, the other,
a rising star in an investment firm.
Her now flabby husband is an executive for a pulp mill. He rapes
the boreal.
She volunteers at the Suicide Prevention Centre, and sends money
to AIDS victims in
Africa. She is a good person. She imagines a life of meaning. It
makes her feel better.
Not so barren, or dead. Giving is receiving, they say.
Her husband suffocates the earth, her daughter sells bearskin
rugs, and her sickly son
buys and sells lives. She launders their souls. She is kind. She
gives.
She has a deep hole to fill.
She could be remembered, in her dreams.
In her dreams, she imagines a life of meaning: to be free, to be
alive, to be.
In her dreams, she imagines a life of meaning: to be desperately,
deeply, needed,
desperately, deeply, desired, like
the deer.
Oh Ever of my heart, this river does go on.
The further that I venture, more channels come along.
River left, or river right, how am I supposed to know?
Of this maze of tributaries, which one’s the one to row?
Contemplating next horizons, I look back to what has been.
There are streams that I have paddled, I would want to see
again.
But on this flowing river web, down-stream’s the only path.
Back is not an option. It can only be like that.
I imagine what’s ahead for me: a sorrow darkened sun.
I want to stop, or turn around, but life’s current presses on.
I know there’s death, but not how much, or who, or why, or
when.
Sometimes I’m like a startled deer; I paralyse in dread.
For sure this winding journey grants crushing standing waves.
But through each chute of rapids, the eddy’s there to break.
In these magic moments, river’s beauty overwhelms.
The graceful bonds exhilarate, we forget the trying swells.
When I hear the roaring waves, in panic I might waver.
But when I feel you with me, I stir the strength to brace.
The only attestation is in the words you give.
For when I let your river steer, inspiration lives.
Looking back upon the life I’ve had, all streams have led to
now.
Of all the ways I’ve chosen, not one of them I fault.
I must not ever know, when or if this venture ends.
It would steal away my reason to chance the rousing crests.
This river is a one-way to an unknown hopeful bend.
I give thanks for the horizon, which I cannot comprehend.
And if I may be honest, Ever dearest to my soul,
It’s knowing you are with me, that keeps me from the shoals.
Dazzling brilliance bathes the day,
Births and warms the wispy haze.
Puffing, growing, dancing through,
Spotting, mobbing vastly blue.
Puffy billows close their play,
To shove aside the friendly day.
Heating sticky muggy brew,
Driving, blasting bubbly fume.
Dazzling waggles pierce the gloom.
Rumbling brashly, crashing doom.
Heaving billows greening glow,
Clenching, loosing mighty load.
Drenching, drowning, pounding ground.
Flooded squigglers hasten round
Grey white sidewalk--breathing now.
(sizzling peril still in shroud).
Rage abates, returning bright.
Long bronzed squigglers soak its blight.
Heating, drying wilting lay,
Squirming, dying; overstayed.
Graceful angel, out she ran.
Gathers living in her hands.
To the land she gently sows.
Forlorn roamers safely home.
When the storm for us draws near,
Would an angel hold us dear?
The old poplar tree with its starlings in its elbow.
The hoarse cow bellowing for its calf; two days now.
The giant lilac bush passing its scent through the kitchen
window.
My favourite dog missing her fresh drowned pups.
The clean green grass.
The starling chicks chirping at the cat.
And the chickens darting around the yard; two to be our supper.
Three dogs, twice a day, six shits a day, 42 shits a week.
Diarrhoea trouble shit. Soft, warm summer shit. Hard and cold
January shit.
Cow shit on the farm. Dog shit in the city.
Same shit, different pile.
Give shit. Take shit. Shovel shit. We’re in a lot of shit.
This is hard shit.
Tough shit.
Shoot the shit, but don’t know shit. My shit. Your shit. Flinging
shit.
Buried shit. Fuck this shit. Tons of shit.
This is horseshit.
Fucking shit. Scat.
Shit disturber, sodomy. Stinky dink, HIV.
Up to my elbows in shit.
Suck dick, eat shit and die. He was a good shit.
They were all good shits.
Shit for brains apathetic chicken shits. Fucking ignorant little
shits.
Won’t take any shit. Shitty, don’t give a shit lives.
Shit heads.
Full of shit fundamentalist shit.
Scary shit.
The Pope shits. His shit doesn’t stink.
Holy shit – Jesus shit! Did it run down his leg on that shitty
cross?
Deep shit.
Bull shit? I’m not shittin’ ya. Does a bear shit in the woods?
Take a shit – big fucking shit. Hurts like shit.
Looks like shit, smells like shit, maybe it’s shit.
We all shit, but won’t give a shit.
Just like dogs, we all turn around to take a look. Proud as
shit.
Guinness Book of World Records shit?
Or scared shitless? The “Oh no I’m dying”, forgot I ate beets
shit.
Who gives a shit about you?
Our shit has more nutrition than third world kids eat in a
week.
My dogs eat their food twice. What the shit? We’re all full of
shit.
So give a shit.
Take a nice long shit. Take a good look. What kind of shit do you
leave behind?
Even dogs know you don’t shit where you sleep.
Same shit, different day. I’m tired of all the shit.
It’s all shit. Simple shit.
No shit.
This is my shit.
no grander magic
than
the grey moon
rounding
our green earth
keeping
her dark white
winters
When I think about life, I think about death. Dead relationships that go on and on and gobble up your life. Dead people gobbling up Paxil, so they can pretend to live; suffocating in their dead houses, built with insentient hope.
When I think about death, I live. There is no hope. There is no tomorrow without a today. Today, I live. Today, I love. Today, I act.
When I think about God, I think about coincidence and synchronicity. Those souls who’ve arrived at my time of need, and the epiphany that their’s is the greater. Harbingers of woe and profound discovery. Accepting my role, and the gift to let go.
When I think about God, I think about destiny and revelation. The tenderly measured unfolding of a grand design, of something more vital than I. The faithful gift of inspiration. And the certainty that in our darkest hour providence will perform.
When I think about you, I marvel at life, and I dream. The longer you live, the more our lives become a miracle. Through sacred flames of sorrow, we’ve walked a privileged path. I thank God for this awful awakening.
Earth fair queen. Queen
sing green, Queen
give rain. Queen
keep kind. Man
play game. Queen
tend time. Queen
bear bane. Queen
kill soon. Earth
new moon.
I’m distressed about the environment. I whine about idiots who
don’t believe in global warming, as if it’s a choice. I’m afraid
it’s too late. I rant about imperialistic capitalists, complain
about ruthless hunters, and I’m appalled at baby seal killers. I
ridicule ignorant conservatives and republican presidents, and
obtuse people who vote for them. I am truly concerned about
fundamentalist Christians, and their family values.
I might work for Alpac, or Syncrude, or Shell, or the government
that supports them. I’ll shop for underwear at Wall Mart. Wear
Nike shoes. Buy a shed from Home Depot. I might own a lofty house,
made from lots of trees, surrounded by lots of trees, to feel
close to nature. I might drive to work in an SUV, 6 klicks per
litre. I probably eat a slaughtered adolescent steer each year,
bovine spongiform encephalopathy or not. And I wear a leather
coat.
I could think about fear. I could think about what it does. What
it’s done to the world. What it’s done to me.
I’ve never felt the terror of having nothing to feed my kids. Of
needing a job, any job, even if it’s working for Alpac. I don’t
live in Hinton, afraid of losing my job because of those ‘fucking
environmentalists’.
I can’t imagine the fear of watching my child die – slowly –
painfully – from AIDS. Knowing I can’t do anything about it. And
the anger from knowing that somebody else can.
I cried when a commercial jet crashed into the World Trade Centre.
Gasped when it came tumbling down. I tried not to picture the eyes
of the American mother on that jet, with a baby in her arms, when
their fate became inevitably, unbelievably, clear. I understood
the terror. Felt the fear.
I can’t imagine the horror of watching my father get blown to
pieces by an American made Israeli bomb, his shredded body parts
dripping from my face. I might understand why that son might want
to blow up tall buildings full of Americans.
We knew the world had changed forever. I hoped the American mother
of the American man who jumped from the 80th floor wasn’t
watching. I understand the fear of Anthrax. I felt compassion for
America. I felt their fear. I just didn’t know it would last so
long.
I know why they’re scared of Muslims and Arabs. It’s the same
reason I’m scared of Christians and Americans. It’s the need to
hold your answer, any answer, against the fear of being wrong. I
feel the fear. We all feel the fear.
I could continue to be arrogant and self righteous and angry. Or,
I could think about the other side. There is always another
side.
Then I can wake up. And think about where I work, and why.
Consider where I shop, or what I buy. Take the bus to work once or
twice a week. Live in a smaller house. Maybe eat beef just once a
week. Volunteer more often. Send some money to Africa.
I could learn about Islam. Maybe even forgive the Christians. Try
to understand their fear. Understand everybody’s fear.
Then I could put on a smile, put one foot in front of the other,
and face the day, with the hope of a little less fear.
God comes in spring. I felt it last April. An incredible feeling
of IS and AM and ALL. Cosmic – Orgasmic – Surreal.
She does too. That’s when they do it. Raw, wet, gut clenching. God
and Gaea.
There comes a time when you know it’s all ready to blow. Pent-up
and on the verge. The engorged buds on the poplar trees aching to
burst. The bulbous sprout of the tiger lily driving through the
soil. Everything seasoned, swollen with possibility, like a bitch
in heat.
I feel the sticky humidity on my skin – watch the vapour bulge
from my lungs. I wait – tensely. Time stands still. As if someone
had pressed a Universal pause button. I hold my breath. Then, in a
fundamental come together moment, the tulips quiver, the clouds
clench and a shower of full, wet, white snow fills the sky and
oozes into the earth. A spring bath from God. I gasp as an
overwhelming surge of life explodes into being. It is the Big
Bang.
It became the kind of day you want to stroke a tree, watch the
soil and dust lick up the moisture. Or lay on the ground and
wonder as a drop of water slides down a fresh new blade of grass.
And you catch the smell of spring. Pungent. Like the smell of sex.
Or the spunk of a vegetarian.
I felt like a voyeur. As I watched, my whole world shifted. It was
unreal.
I didn’t mind getting splashed with a bit myself. God’s snow. I
actually lifted my face to the sky and opened wide. I stuck out my
tongue to catch a flake. A piece of God. I swallowed.
God is inside me.
It is real.
God comes in spring and the earth sings green.
I was born to soar
over lands of ice
and to know the scented snow.
I was born a friend of the Great Bear’s light,
and to brace for winter’s woe.
I was born in a land where spring is known to rouse our Viking
soul.
I try not to pray for an early spring,
afraid my soaring heart might get dashed with false hopes.
Embracing harsh realities is a Viking legacy – a gift of my
ancestors.
Ice flows through our veins.
Forged by ruthless winters we can bear anything, except
for the scent of lilac.
In this land it is the scent of God – a harbinger
of spring. Provocative, yet evanescent.
A trick of dreams – barely here, then gone again, not sure it ever
was.
We’re almost sorry it came at all,
when icy winds return too soon
bracing us for the enduring reality we know too well.
It’s what we do in summer – We brace for winter.
We spend this heaven sent three months growing and squirreling
food
so we can hibernate and survive the icy blasts of the Siberian
highs,
the spring in our feet needed to get as much done as we can.
We are sorely grateful for an extra week or two to harvest our
crops.
Although we can’t bear the thought of winter, we spend our lives
in it, or preparing for it.
So why do I bear this dreadful thing?
Because it is my land. It has embraced me. It knows me. It knows
my blood.
When I touch this land I soar to eternity.
It reeks with my scent and the scent of my ancestors.
My heart springs to life when I work its earth.
And it is from this land that is born my icy resolve
to save it from the ice cold steel of its offspring
who will one day lay bare the land
and end all springs….
unless we learn to embrace the ground we grow on,
to revere the scent of snow,
and to soar for Aurora’s song.
We chase heaven's scent, and stain God's ice.
We embrace a sorry wind.
Mother and spring – I will not bear their death.
Sometimes I’m afraid. Afraid this might be real. Most times I’m
sure it’s just a dream. A harsh dream overflowing with the walking
dead. Where autistic, evanescent souls bleed through self
inflicted wounds of false beliefs. An illusory reality where we
cling to a cage of relentless desperate isolation. For fear of
opening our hearts, perchance the essence of our souls will leak
through the fingers of those we trust.
We are lost, in this dream of severance. In this dream we have no
memory. We forgot how to nurture our hearts. To touch life. A
touching that transcends this dream into an eternal sun that
bleeds its love freely. A love to rouse us from our dreary sleep
of death and vanity. Awaken us to a world where all that’s living
dies and lives again. An everlasting gift that surges and pulses
like the semen from our loins, the blood from our wombs, and the
noble truth in our hearts.
We can come home. Where we don’t need dreams to be happy. Where
the exuberant universe ignites us, and the living Earth embraces
us, and holds our dead. We are of this power, this life. This
amazing, magnetic, dynamic, living wonder. We are its ultimate
conduit. Our hearts resonate with this truth. This blessed,
living, loving force that is us. That is God.
Here we are, lying on the ground, gazing up at the moon. Tonight
there’s a comet swinging by. And there’s Saturn, and Mars, and
Jupiter too. Look at the stars. And the galaxies pretending to be
stars. Can you see the Milky Way stretching across the sky? Can
you imagine its size? Whirling and swirling God knows where. And
there’s Andromeda, billions upon billions of miles away, sharing
the dawn of a billion suns. A dawn lighting our eyes at the zenith
of a journey that began over two million years ago. Can you see?
Can you feel?
Here we are, lying on the Earth, looking up at the moon, all of us
whirling around the sun, floating and swirling in a galaxy dancing
to eternity. Grounded on our Earth, with only our hearts to reach
out and beyond, to wonder and to love, and to bind each and every
one of us to all that is. This dazzling beacon of life and love
that echoes throughout the universe. An echo born in our amazing
hearts where living energy is transformed into a loving, radiant
miracle.
Here I am, looking in awe and wonder and amazement at the stars in
the sky and at the miracle in your eyes. Seeing eternity in your
eyes. Feeling eternity in the hug of the ground and knowing
eternity in your love. All the energy in the universe converging
in this moment to say, we are one. You are just right for me. The
universe is just right for us. And that is why we are here.
Here we are, my noble friends, standing on this floating,
spinning, astonishing Earth, soaring through the universe, holding
each other’s hearts, reaching out to the stars...
It’s hard to be the forest as a tree.
We used to have a plastic water barrel, mainly white with a
pinkish red ring around the top edge. I placed it between our
house and the fence, beside the young oak tree. Through our
bedroom window I could see the playful squirrels up close and
personal, rushing up and down and across the oak’s branches.
It was a very dry year, and I had to water my flowers, shrubs and
trees religiously every other day. It finally rained in mid-June
and for a treat for my flowers, instead of water from the hose, I
decided to use the fresh rain water from the barrel. I walked
over, looked inside hoping to find a healthy dose of water. It was
only about a quarter full, but to my horror I saw two rotting
corpses floating in the dark muddy water. My heart tore as I
noticed that one was smaller than the other.
It occurred to me that the thirsty baby squirrel had ventured into
the barrel first realizing too late that he could not climb the
slick plastic walls of the water barrel to get out. It was a death
trap. The mother, likely knowing better, had no choice. She had
jumped in to save him. I tried not to think about how long they
managed to stay alive – floating in a barrel they could not escape
from. “Oh God!”, I screamed to myself, “How could you be so
cruel?”
Then in answer, a vague memory became achingly and awfully clear.
Only one week ago I remembered seeing Echo, my Siberian Husky,
snooping around this water barrel, circling it, sniffing up and
down and all around. I thought about going to see what was up, but
it was time to go in the house, so I called him to me. At first he
didn’t come, so I called him more forcefully. With his head
turning back to look at the water barrel he reluctantly came to me
– and into the house we went.
As I was standing over the white rain barrel with the pinkish red
ring around the top edge, watching the drowned mother and son
floating in the murky water, it all suddenly became painfully
clear – For God had sent his saviour for these squirrels. I simply
did not listen.
The grace and beauty of the Hawk,
as it drifts along the unseen currents of air,
belie the hunger of beak and claw,
so ready to rend and tear.
Just to sit and watch this majestic bird,
on its never ending quest,
gives me all the excuse I need to pause,
and consider nature at her best.
As Hawks have been hunting for hundreds of years,
in search of their living prey.
Enjoy the beauty of nature as is,
for it’s not for us to say.
In the grand scheme of things,
Man just don’t fit.
And the way we have treated nature,
we deserve just what we get.
“Let nature take its course,”
you hear at every turn.
But with our never ending greed,
we continue to slash and burn.
Sanity may return one day,
if our children have a say.
To see the look of our betrayal in their eyes,
is the price we now must pay.
So give them a hand, these children of ours,
so their future will be assured.
And one day their children may pause to rest,
and watch this majestic bird.
Milton Spracklin
Milton lives in Edmonton with Esther, his wife of fifty one years.
He has four sons and seven grandchildren. He lives with the birds
and the squirrels in summer.
I was floating in that canoe of mine, with the old man who was a
young man too. As I dipped my fingers into the water of the River,
I asked him, “Will I ever find peace?” He responded, “Tell me son,
what in the world are the two most important things that you have
learned?” I thought about this for a while - I had lived a good
life and had pondered its mysteries, and I had hopeful answers:
“Time and space are illusions, and everything and everyone is
connected”, I responded proudly. The young man with wise man eyes
smiled and said, “You are very wise.” And that is all he said.
After a while, familiar waves of anxiety started to crush my heart
and soul, and so I retorted, “If I am so very wise, then why have
I not found peace?” And the old man with the young man eyes smiled
and said, “Because you are full of hope. Peace is at your door.
You have the answer: “Time and space ARE illusions. Everything and
Everyone IS connected. To find peace you need only TRUST that this
is so.”
Time and space are illusions. Everything and everyone is
connected. Trust that this is so.
Cradle rocks, brightens night.
Cradle warms, life’s delight.
Cradle mists, Tender wakes.
Cradle feeds, Tender stakes.
To moistly warm a gentle sprout,
Amazing swiftly raised.
Breezy blows and Tender bows,
To splendid friends in praise.
Nature veiled, emerging strange,
Young kind to budding form.
Arrives July and blossoms spring,
Orange as dazzling warm.
“Here I am!” Fine tiger roars.
Bright brightness shines abound.
Gasps amazed, and wonder awes,
“My brilliance marvels all.”
Expensive seeds so freely shared,
For sure to overwhelm.
Dazzle dims and brightness fades.
Prays vivid memories tell.
Cradle falls, Tender breaks,
Cradle keeps foundation.
Cradle colds, Tender holds,
For Ever stays creation.
Bleak recedes and lily blooms,
Astounding lonely splendour.
Sad kindly strange reunions.
All forgotten, kin and womb.
Ever sighs, Ever tears.
Ever cries, “I AM! Hear!”
Personally, I don’t have the stomach for any sort of killing.
But I do love beef. I can’t resist the blood dripping succulent
flavor of a barbecued 16 oz rib eye. Sometimes, feeling guilty
after an especially good cut, I wonder if the steer it came from
(you know, the one with no balls) enjoyed his nineteen months of
life in a feedlot.
A while back I decided I wouldn’t eat mammals anymore, unless they
were served to me (we live in a polite society don’t you know).
And I decided it would be okay to eat birds, because they don’t
have feelings. Then I remembered that they care for their young
too. Then I thought, if I stick to chickens I could eat as many as
three chickens a week, while it would take me a year to eat just
one steer. So, on the basis of lives lost, maybe I should quit
eating chickens? But what about those poor steers? Maybe I should
only eat steers that are raised by nice farmers? You know, the
kind who keep their pets (oops, I mean cows) warm in winter, sing
them happy birthday and give them lots of presents for
Christmas.
Sometimes I wonder why we humans are omnivores. It does give us
the opportunity to eat virtually anything. Those nice molars, just
perfect for munching on carrots. And why else would we have
incisors if not for ripping and tearing all that meat. Then I
thought, well, maybe it’s a choice? Are we animals, or not?
Then I got to thinking some more. All those yummy chickens and
pigs and steers wouldn’t even be here if we didn’t breed them. How
would you like it if you were never born? Is it better to live,
than to have never lived at all? Would quality of life weigh in on
this particularly challenging question? How much suffering would
you consider too much before taking a pass?
This winter we were invaded by mice. At first, I thought there was
only one. I tried my darndest to catch it, but the stupid thing
didn’t appreciate my altruism. My partner purchased four
mousetraps, against my pleading, and placed them in strategic
locations around the basement. Imagine the guilt I faced at the
prospect of becoming a premeditated murderer. That night I heard a
snap while watching T.V. I decided to wait until morning to see
what we caught (I didn’t want to have to make some sort of
horrific choice if it was still alive). I was relieved when I saw
that the trap had crushed the mouse’s skull. At least it didn’t
suffer. Our trouble with mice was over, or so I thought. The next
mouse was about the same size as the other one. The trap crushed
its chest. I assumed death was instant. The third mouse broke my
heart. It was a little thing about one third the size of the
others. In my horror, it occurred to me that we had killed its
mother and father, and left it alone to search for food on its
own. The trap almost split it in two.
A couple of days later we got the fourth mouse. It was my undoing.
It was another little guy. He must have been starving. His eyes
were open and his mouth was open and I could see the piece of
peanut butter covered cheese still in his mouth. I felt like an
animal. At least he had a moment of satisfaction before the trap
popped his heart. We don’t have any more mice.
Did I have any options? Was I supposed to welcome the mice to my
home? Charge them rent?
I’m such a marshmallow. I even try to save the spiders that
somehow make it into our house. They’re especially tricky to catch
without mauling or killing. The seasons cause me some
consternation. Putting them outside in the middle of winter could
be life threatening, so I just put them in the laundry room and
hope they find a good place to hide and/or hibernate. Sometimes
though, my dogs get to them first. Dogs are evil when it comes to
other species. They play with them and tease them and then wonder
why they quit moving after about an hour or so. Kids and dogs have
a lot in common. They’re animals.
This reminds me of my friend’s dad. My friend’s house was under
construction last summer when a pigeon innocently made a nest in
her still open garage. Her father saved the day. He got a ladder,
grabbed the pigeon, snapped its neck and smashed its eggs on the
ground. At least she didn’t suffer. I almost balled when I was
told about it. What an animal.
A while back, my parents had a cabin out at the lake. It was an
old run down shack, but it was on a large lot with lots of trees
and wilderness. One day, when my uncle was over, my Mom complained
too much about the loud crows. He got a bee bee gun out of his
truck and shot the babies out of their nest. They came crashing
down to the ground where he clubbed them as they tried to crawl
away. He shot the mother a few times too, but she managed to fly
off. We didn’t have any trouble with crows after that.
I was aghast with empathetic horror when I heard about it. Could I
have stopped him if I was there? Or would he have shot me too?
This is the same uncle who set up a nifty trap for wasps and
hornets and bees. It uses honey to attract them. The trap is built
in such a way that the wasps and hornets and bees can get in but
can’t get out. At the bottom of the trap is a pool of water laced
with honey. After a few hours of flying around in blistering heat,
they fall into the water. It takes them another few hours to
drown.
On my way home that Sunday, I teared up every time a fly or a
butterfly or a grasshopper went splat on my windshield. Are we all
animals?
I think I’ll become a Hindu. They try really hard not to kill
anything, even ants, in case one might be the reincarnation of
their dead mother, or grandfather, or eighth cousin, twice
removed. Can you imagine the guilt of squishing the guts out of
your mother? Or what if that steer you ate last year was the
grandfather you hated, come back to haunt you. And now he’s a part
of you forever. And what about all those chickens? Was one of them
Shakespeare? Did you feel like writing sonnets after your last
trip to Kentucky Fried Chicken? And how many of you animals out
there actually did eat Marilyn Monroe (and not just in your
wildest dreams).
Sometimes I think I get a bit carried away.
In the summer you can’t possibly walk without killing something.
Do I have to quit walking to stick to my principles? And what
about sleeping? Every time I move, I’m sure I kill thousands of
bed mites. And what about breathing? Somebody told me we kill
millions of bitty things with every breath we take. The members of
a strict Hindu sect in India actually wear facemasks to reduce the
kill rate. Have they gone too far? Where does it end?
This little bit of infinite gruesomeness got me thinking. Is it
even remotely possible to live without killing? What does it mean
to be an animal? Is it a kill or be killed kind of world? If we
have to kill to survive, does the suffering and random killing
have to be a part of the package? The more I think about it the
more I wonder. Are we animals, or not?
We have a cute little plastic pond in our backyard. It’s sort of
oblong shaped, about 6 feet long, 4 feet wide and two feet deep.
It is circled by reddish orange shale and sits against a large
bushy dogwood. From a distance it almost looks real. In the summer
a small fountain shoots water upward so gravity can bring it back
down again to make pleasant sounding sprinkles. The fountain also
functioned as an aerator for goldfish and as a filter for their
natural by-products.
I think we value the pond most for the pleasant ‘natural’ water
sound it makes, something akin to a babbling brook. On a quiet day
we sit comfortably in our chair swing under the canopy of trees,
listening to the bird song and the pond, while trying to ignore
the traffic sounds from a major arterial roadway just two blocks
away.
After five summers of enjoying the pleasurable esthetics of the
pond, I have finally come to accept the fact that our cute little
plastic pond may not be as pleasant or ‘natural’ as I thought.
One of the reasons we bought the house was because of the
exceptionally beautiful back yard. Trees and bushes of all shapes,
sizes and colours fill the yard, enshrouding it in a canopy of
privacy. The pond was its crowning achievement. We first viewed
the house and yard in the summer and at that time the pond had
several handsome goldfish in it. Some were a goodly size with
magnificent tails waving in the clear water.
We loved the home at first sight and decided to purchase it.
Possession date was December 1st, and since this was in the midst
of our winter, I asked the owners about the fish. They said not to
worry – they had a heater to keep the water from freezing, and
fish sort of hibernated in winter, so they would be fine.
It was a warm autumn, but the week before we moved into our new
home the weather turned quite cold. We arrived at the home on
possession date and on the counter was a note from the owners. It
went something like this: “We apologize, but we forgot to put the
heater in the pond before the freeze. The heater is there now, and
we see some movement so we hope the fish are still alive.” I ran
out to the pond to look, and I saw that the heater had warmed the
pond enough so it was not solid ice – a space in the middle was
clear of ice and I could see a couple of the fish swimming around.
Unfortunately, I also noticed that other fish had been embraced by
the ice – they seemed to me to be alive, with their eyes open and
their tails caught forever in mid-stroke. I wondered for a moment
if the freezing was instant and if it was possible they might
still live, like some amphibians do. I decided not to worry about
that until the spring. At least some had survived the neglect of
the previous owner.
I fretted a little bit every now and then over the winter, and
when the spring thaw arrived, I checked out the fish. To my
horror, they were all dead. The previous owner neglected to
provide adequate instructions to us. The heater AND the pump
needed to keep running over the winter for the fish to survive –
the pump circulated the water enough to keep it oxygenated.
Unfortunately, when the pond had frozen over, the pump had burnt
out – at the time I had no idea of the significance of this
insignificant fact. I of course blamed myself for their death – a
few were alive when I arrived at our new home and I could have
saved them had I done the appropriate research.
Although our first experience with the pond was not a pleasant
one, when summer arrived we enjoyed it and the pleasant sprinkling
sounds of its fountain.
The next year, I decided that we were ready for new fish. It would
be an atonement of sorts. I would save a few goldfish from a pet
store and give them cozy little lives. This time, we would
over-winter the fish in the house in a nice aquarium. A smaller
home for them, but at least there was little risk of life
threatening below zero temperatures. So, I went to the pet store
and I purchased seven goldfish for 38 cents each: four solid
orange, and three orange and white.
I took them home and then released them from the plastic bag into
the pond. I believe they enjoyed their first summer – they were
perhaps a bit skittish, diving to the bottom of the pond when
anything moved within sight, but they seemed healthy and grew a
fair bit.
Before the winter freeze, I set up the in-door aquarium in our
family room and moved them into the house. Two of them died over
that winter – I wasn’t sure why, they were well fed and I cleaned
the water every week – maybe it was some sort of disease. I
appropriately mourned their short lives and then flushed them down
the toilet. The next summer was a repeat of the first and the next
winter was a repeat as well – once again two of the fish died. The
indoor environment was obviously not healthy for them. I made sure
to get the pond ready for them as quickly as possible that summer
so they could enjoy their much healthier and vibrant life
outside.
Sometime in June, I noticed a murder of crows had started to
congregate in the very large laurel leaf willow that overlooked
the pond. I briefly wondered why, worried that the crows might be
considering my fish as their next meal. But I shrugged the threat
off because I was confident the fish would dive out of reach if
the crows had the urge to go fishing.
The next morning I went out to feed the fish, but they were gone.
I was confused at first – maybe they were hiding under the fake
seaweed? Or behind a rock? But, I looked and I looked and I looked
again, and they just weren’t there. Then I thought that maybe they
had accidently jumped out while playing with each other. I looked
around the pond and found no such evidence. Then the crows started
cawing and I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Those
evil bastards had eaten my fine friends. I was aghast and
profoundly traumatized. Due to my irresponsibility, these fish,
who were under my care, had become the meal for some nasty birds.
I returned to the pond quite often to see if they might have
magically returned, but it was one of those false hopes that are
more false than the others. I mourned their demise for quite a
while – perhaps more than I normally would have because my
intuition had given me warning about the deadly devious crows, but
I shrugged it off and chose not to act.
I didn’t buy any more fish and I got rid of the aquarium – it was
a pain to clean anyway and I was thankful for that. For a few more
summers we enjoyed the fishless pond and its pleasant sounding
sprinkles.
The summer of 2014 finished me off – naturally.
It was another hot and dry summer and the pond and its fresh water
was a god send to the multitudes of thirsty birds. It was a
beautiful oasis. Most also used it as a bird bath. I had a strong
sense of pride that my pond was serving a useful life giving
purpose – my gift to nature. For a while, I forgot about nature’s
need to feed itself.
In July, I discovered a squawky little baby magpie wandering in
our yard. I wondered where its mother was, so I looked up and I
saw her perched atop the spruce tree, the tree from which the baby
had likely jumped. The baby’s wings and tail were not developed so
it was unable to fly. I thought about my yard for a bit, and
thought that little ‘Maggie’ could not find a safer place in which
to spend its time while its wings and tail feathers grew. No cats
ventured into our yard because of our dogs, and the yard was fully
fenced, so unless Maggie could fly, it could not escape to less
safe yards - and I could keep the dogs away from the bird. I left
Maggie alone, but supervised from a distance. I was quite pleased
when it let out a big squawk and the mother came swooping down
with a worm in its mouth to shove it down the throat of its
offspring (I often wondered if the mother’s primary motivation was
to stop the horrible noise). The noisy little thing just might
survive, I thought to myself.
Over the next few days there were a few minor mishaps. Maggie got
stuck in one of our window wells, but I heard it scratching
against the window so out I went to rescue her – another proud
moment. One day I didn’t see Maggie on the ground so I thought she
might be in a bush, so I let my dogs out – the curious little
Yorky found her, and because it was almost the same size, he
proceeded to bark at it instead of trying to catch and eat it. I
managed to keep the two separated until the dogs were finished
their business.
My partner and I got into the routine of checking to see where the
little birdy was when we came home from work each day. One day, I
saw it sitting on the little barrel beside our pond. The lid was
such that about a half inch of water was on top and the little
birdy used this as its water source. “Excellent!” I thought to
myself. “Maggie won’t die of thirst.” I momentarily considered the
possibility that Maggie might try to drink from the pond and fall
in, but I thought about all the other birds that used it as a bath
and I knew they were able to get in and out of the pond quite
easily – so I shrugged the possibility away. The next day after
work I could not find Maggie anywhere in the yard. I had this
dreadful feeling and I decided to look in the pond. There she was.
Maggie was most certainly dead, but I scooped up her cold body
anyway and I pumped her chest with my thumb – to no avail of
course. I briefly considered mouth to mouth but decided against it
– how much air would be too much? So, I accepted that Maggie had
died, and I put her in the garbage bag so other birds wouldn’t eat
her. My guilt was overwhelming. It was almost as if I had lost a
pet. I knew from previous experience (squirrels and water barrels)
that plastic and water were not a good combination for wildlife,
and I also had an ‘intuitive’ warning, but once again, although I
heard, I did not listen, and I did not act.
I thought about the pond for a bit, and then I briefly thought
about baby robins that almost always venture into our yard in
summer, and I wondered if the pond might claim it too. I briefly
thought about putting some sort of ladder in the pond so a bird
stupid enough to get trapped in the pond would have a way out (if
one’s knows robins you know that these are especially stupid
birds). It was late in July so I decided that the robin was likely
flying by now and so I decided not to worry. No less than a week
later I found the baby robin floating in my pond. I imagined it
had tried to reach the water but had fallen in, but because of the
slippery plastic edges, it could not get out. As the mother robin
swooped at me, I pulled the baby out, and certain this time that
it was irrevocably dead, I put it in the garbage bag so the mother
wouldn’t have to worry about protecting it from the Magpies.
I was not sad this time – I was angry. I was very very angry at
God for doing this. “Why?” I screamed with my inside voice. “Why
did you do this?” “They were innocent babies.” The guilt was
overwhelming (and it still is). Then I recalled the ‘intuitive’
warnings that I had had, and my guilt grew exponentially. I was
warned about the pond and the danger to the Magpie and to the
Robin – A saviour was sent.
Before going into the house, I put a board in the pond so any
other birds could climb on to it if they were stupid enough to
fall in.
Over winter, I have thought about these incidents quite deeply.
Why was I given the opportunity to make a choice in the first
place? Did someone or something want me to act, or did
they/it/he/she want me to choose? Or were they teaching me to
listen? Then I listened some more. And I looked inside very very
deeply, and there I was.
I still haven’t decided what I will do with the pond. But I do
know that I will listen really hard for an answer.
A gangly mother and
her nosey son mosey down
to our tinselled town
where the kid
springs over a fence
and up to the freeway
in the way of
a killer
car.
The horrified mother cries
and hovers
for a while
then strays off across town
to be whacked
by a truck.
With a wounded leg
she limps to lay
in a neighbour safe back yard
where she is scraped
gratefully
out of her agony
with a cop’s bullet
spot on
between
her remarkable eyes.
I’ve never been especially fond of spiders. And if you asked me a
few years ago if I would consider a relationship with a spider,
(assuming you would be odd enough to actually ask this particular
question) I would think you were loony.
Spiders are about the nastiest looking things on the planet. Ugly,
hairy, scary things with eight legs and beady eyes. Yuck. And
probably the most vicious and sociopathic creepy crawlers that
ever existed. Imagine the callousness one would need to make an
artful, sticky silk web with the sole purpose of ensnaring another
living being – to wait patiently in anticipation for the twitch,
the tell tale sign that something vibrant and juicy has been
trapped – then tripping over your eight hairy legs in a rush to
your victim to jab it into unconsciousness so you can wrap it up
at your own leisurely pace. Once nicely packaged you lustfully
wait for it to die from exhaustion trying to get free. Then you
carry it to hang in your pantry, until you have a craving for that
particular kind of meal. Never once caring about how you’re meal
might have felt.
It was a good summer for spiders. The big orby ones were
especially noticeable. By the end of summer, three had received my
specific attention, most likely because they forced me to make a
few very difficult choices. For some inexplicable reason, two
planted themselves on my shed doors. They attached one end of
their silk line to the shed door and the other to whatever was in
wafting distance. Each shed stored various gardening accoutrement,
so every four or five days I had the unenviable task of trying to
open the shed doors without causing too much damage to the
spiders’ webs. I tried not to swing the doors open too fast, and
even tried opening them just enough to squeeze in and out. But, it
was all for naught. Each time, their webs were ruined. And of
course, I fretted each time too. After about four or five home
wreckings, the spiders found their senses and moved on. One spider
simply moved to the edge of the shed and latched his or her web to
a nice potentilla I had planted the year before. I was quite
pleased with this spider. I only had to be moderately careful when
I watered my shrubs. The other spider simply went away. Maybe a
bird ate it.
The third spider is the grandmother of all spiders, I’m sure.
Humongous, hairy, spotted and pot bellied. Her beady little eyes
follow my every move. Her home is under the power meter on the
side of my house. Unfortunately, she anchored one end of her web
to the gate. And even more unfortunately, I need to go in and out
of this gate quite regularly, especially to water the assorted
flowers and shrubs in my exceptionally beautiful front yard. I
peaked in on her and noticed she had an assortment of hanging
meals, a good supply. So, for the first couple of waterings I just
swung the gate open, knowing I wasn’t placing the spider’s life in
peril, but hoping she would get the hint and move. But, of course,
if you know spiders, it takes a lot to get them to move. She kept
rebuilding her web, and I kept destroying it.
For the spider’s sake, I knew this couldn’t go on. So, I tried to
minimize the damage by squeezing through the gate as tightly as
possible. Sometimes I just damaged her web a little bit, but
sometimes I damaged it a lot. Over time, I noticed that her food
supply was dwindling. My empathetic attempts were obviously not
successful. Her spinnerets were working too much overtime. So, I
started to open the gate just enough to get the hose through and
then I would walk around the back of the house, through the garage
and around the front of the house to pull the hose from the other
side. This worked out quite well. She only loses her web about
once a week when visitors ignorantly decide to use the gate for no
other reason than to get to the other side.
I am happy with my choice. I have become even happier as I peak in
on her from time to time. I noticed her munching on a hornet the
other day. And I saw another one nicely bundled up. I remembered
the hornets’ nest in my shed at the lake and the nasty bites I
received each time I opened the door to get something. Then I
remembered the horrible guilt I felt when my Uncle took a can of
raid one night and sprayed the hornet’s nest, put it in a plastic
bag, and tossed it in the campfire. A mass murderer for sure. It
became even more dreadful when it occurred to me that he had
wasted the potential food source for many spiders.
Then I thought, there certainly seems to be a lot of spiders
around this year. Plenty enough hornets I guess. Then my brain
started to do some thinking. Lots of hornets equals lots of
spiders, lots of spiders equals lots of bird. And I love birds. My
Uncle does too, except for magpies and crows. These are bad
birds.
Each night before dusk, at my Uncle’s lake lot, we’d watch the
hummingbirds feed, then we’d sit around the fire, and watch the
dragonflies dive bomb the mosquitoes. Hmmm, I thought, birds eat
dragonflies. Fish do too. It’s quite exhilarating to see a fish
snap up a dragonfly in mid-air. And I know lots of animals who eat
fish. Then I wondered at my Uncle’s tearful description of a hawk
(another bad bird) swooping in and snatching up a robin. Then the
next week he told us nonchalantly that the robins who had made a
nest in the hitch of his trailer, had decided to have a second
batch of babies. More food for the hawk?
Now, I sit in my backyard with the magpies, the crows, the
bluebirds and the squirrels. I observe the bees dipping in and out
of the pink and yellow blossoms on my shrubs. Then Jake, my
Shitzu, Maltese, Pomeranian puppy, backs up to fertilize my
healthy potentilla (he won’t crap without a bush or a tree to crap
against - its like he’s found his purpose or something), and I
watch the mosquitoes. Sometimes one will land on my arm or leg. I
watch it insert its stinger, then I see its stomach redden as it
grows. I watch it pull out its stinger and awkwardly fly off, all
plump and heavy with my blood. And I think, maybe she’ll go on now
and make lots of babies. And then I think, how nice it would be if
she ended up in my spider’s web? And then I suddenly have one of
those astounding, gut shot, God struck moments. And I feel truly
grateful. Truly, truly grateful for getting locked into this
miraculous web of life.
Gilding maple flutters
round the mobbly caws.
Seagull dipsy dances
across the redding dawn.
Aphrodite glistens boldly
‘gainst the gloried morn.
Steely eagle snatches
at a fading, waning crown.
Golden autumn lingers
as Persephone adorns.
Hickory. Dickory. Dock.
I can see four clocks from my kitchen table. I wear a watch too.
On my way to work I make sure my watch is synchronized with my
dash board clock and the short beeps followed by the long dash on
CBC Radio, 740.
I always know what time it is.
Tick. Tock.
In kindergarten, I coloured a picture with the sun, the moon and
the stars all shining brightly together up in the night sky. “The
sun doesn’t come out at night!” my teacher corrected. I was
sufficiently humbled at the time. Now that I think about it, I was
pretty astute for a five year old. The sun, the moon and the stars
are in fact all in the sky together. At the time, perhaps for me,
time held no meaning.
From singularity (the instant before the BIG BANG) to now, the
universe we live in is about thirteen point seven billion years
old (they’re still debating what happened before singularity –
something about string theory and multiple universes and such).
It takes about thirty-two years to count to a billion. It takes
about four hundred and thirty two years to count to thirteen point
seven billion. You better hurry. Thirteen point seven billion
years is a very long time.
Are we there yet?
Tick. Tock.
A moment, or a trillion moments are infinitely small when there is
no beginning and no end. Welcome to the middle of infinity.
Tick.
The present is when we grasp the future and let go of the past.
There is no present.
Tock.
Are you here yet?
As a child I hated to lose time. Falling asleep today and waking
up tomorrow was disconcerting (something like the disconcerting
uncertainty principle). I didn’t like moving instantly from this
day to the next. What did I miss while I was away? Did my friend
Nora have a big birthday party and invite everybody else but me?
Tick. Tock.
The older I get, the more time flies. Maybe its because my head is
swollen with possibilities. Or maybe its just because I have more
memories, and today’s addition to the stew is relatively smaller
than yesterdays. One year out of forty-six is a lot smaller than
one year out of five.
Tick. Tock.
As a child, the future was this vast expanse ahead of me. Now
there’s this vast expanse behind me, with hardly any time ahead.
And I’m only half way through.
Hickory. Dickory. Dock.
Memory is the measure of time. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
On my visit to grandma last week, she remembered me. Except I was
eight and she was mad that I spit out her porridge.
Tick. Tock.
Memory is the measure of time.
According to relativity, the faster you can go, the more time
slows down, for you. If you can go fast enough you can move years
into my future in the blink of your eye. Hmmm…. do you think you
could start right away?
Tick. Tock.
Are you there yet?
We can experience entire lifetimes in our dreams. And it only
takes an instant. I wish I could remember them. But only the good
ones, like when I’m somebody else.
Tick. Tock.
I don’t mind losing time now. It speeds things up. Sometimes I get
in my car and arrive at work without remembering how I got there.
Moving instantly through time like this is a thoughtful
experience.
Time is relative to your state of consciousness.
Yesterday, I got in the elevator and tried to push the button to
the eighth floor, except there was no eighth floor. I shook my
head and came back to now. It’s been almost a year, but for a
moment, I was back at my old job.
Tick. Tock.
Am I here yet?
When you create a memory, you aren’t aware of the passage of time.
But, the new memory creates a sense of time in the future.
Frick. Crock?
I was seventeen when I experienced my first black out from
drinking too much. I was here, then I wasn’t, then I was here
again. Jumping through time this way hurt my head a lot. I guess
my brain cells were having too much fun to make memories.
Tick. Tock. What?
Time is relative to your memory.
Changing the past is easy. If there’s something in my past I don’t
like, I can just pretend it didn’t happen. Or better yet, I can
make something up. Like maybe in my mind they really didn’t land
on the moon.
Tick.
Our most pleasant experiences seem to take no time at all. But we
remember them for a lifetime. Our most painful experiences seem to
take a lifetime. And we spend our lifetime trying to forget.
Tick. Tock.
Time is relative to your state of mind.
Until I had memory (at about five years old), I didn’t exist, and
neither did time.
Tick. Tock.
Memory is the mother of consciousness.
Are we here yet?
If you could put time in a bottle, it might be a memory jar. If I
could put time in a bottle, I’d shoot it. I’m from Alberta.
Click.
General anaesthesia took me through time twice now. In an instant
I was gone. In the next I was back. Two hours or two years could
have passed for all I know. Maybe the real me is in some sort of
alternate universe. I wonder where we go when we die?
Tick. Tock. Hip. Hop.
In 1967, by international agreement, the second was defined as the
duration of nine billion, one hundred and ninety two million, six
hundred and thirty one thousand, seven hundred and seventy periods
of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two
hyperfine levels of the ground state of the Cesium atom.
Their tock doesn’t tick like the rest of ours. I always thought a
second was 1/60th of a minute? A mouse certainly ran up somebody’s
clock.
Your lunch will pass, time will pass, and so will you. You better
hurry.
Hickory. Dickory. Dock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick…..
Are you here yet?
The future is forever to a dog.
I had a dream.
And in this dream I saw a seed, singing in the air.
From far below the garden heard and begged the graceful dancer
To couple with its fecund loam and live forever after.
The charming seed was glad to hear, so descended from the
firmament.
The seed was pleased and wove its life into the living
fundament.
In its time it sprouted and twinkled in delight.
Then it reached into the darkness, and this tree drew back the
night.
Branches grew from branches, seasons circled round and round.
The tree grew thick and stunning, with a glowing gilded crown.
Golden branches blossomed as seasons circled more,
The blossoms swelled to tempting fruit and I ate a golden core.
This living tree, it spoke to me, eternal lines through time.
Its memory enlightened, and our greatness came to mind.
I heard Socrates and Shakespeare, pondered Moses on the Mount.
I heard Dickinson and Wordsworth, and wandered as a cloud.
And in this dream I saw a leaf upon a golden tree.
A breeze came by and swayed the tree to set its treasure free.
The tree released its golden leaf upon the gentle breeze.
Floating, swaying, dancing down, it lit upon this leaf.
In the beginning there was darkness.
Then the word became.
This tree was called eternity.
And in it we are named.