Two birds on the wing early morning,
Flying northward for a drink or a splash
Or simply to escape their quest for comfort;
Or no quest at all, but just a place to rest,
A refuge from always waiting for refuge.
I think that every life is a question
For which there is no single answer.
What if we think of every life
As an answer to an unspoken question?
It is a question of the unique singularity
Of what relates to that particular life.
I find felicity in momentary images.
In fine arts and music there may be
Some residues of birds soaring and gliding
On air currents that kindle sunlight at dawn.
A light green streak of wings across my view:
A little bird has flown away at dawn.
We cannot put metronomes to the waves of the sea.
Such art works happen in evanescence.
Enough to have become self-aware
As a momentary molecule of mute identity.