The bush says: “Still.  The wind will move us.”  The rocks say: “Roll with it.”  The dog, though, is clear: “Piss on it.”

Grass, once covered with a layer of rounded stones, pops in: “You’ll grow up and out of it.”  The crows just scold and clack to get us out of the way so they can patrol for pickings.  They can’t be bothered with me.  I have my thick rubber boots of safety and faith–I can walk on any path with comfort, fearlessly faith-filled.

Branches are bare, but the subtle scent of spring foretells green.  The red wing black bird has already started singing out the call for nests and love and creation.  In gestation we are turned away from death and endings to the bursting miracle of birth.

The field in the forest says: “You need a wide opening for spring to refresh and restore the green in your soul.”  Brown leaves on the path once brilliant yellow surrender in relief to melt into the warm soil.  Briar brambles sneak out little bright green leaves with no mind to the lush dense bank of thorns, blossoms and berries that will set up a formidable wall around the clearing.

“You need a wide open space for abundance to grow,” they say to me.

And the hawk appears.  Black, big, singularly still high up the bare bones of a tree on the horizon.  My heart cries out: Let me have your wide sharp eyes.  I claim your power and stillness, confident of the next meal who shakes and hides in the burrows beneath. Tear at my piteous flesh and eat out the guts of my maudlin sorrow, rip apart the tendrils of my adolescent anger.

That when my tiny bones melt into the path, I still sit.  Sit in black warrior stillness.  Sharp eyes watching the wide open field for life.  Today I sit in motionless wonder.