The Great Blue Heron And A Conspiracy Of The Heart
I have wanted to wear your coat of blue and grey feathers and indifference. I have desired your wings.
The bay colors the air with citrus and brine, flavors the tongue with rough green currents.
A coming storm in the yellowing dusk.
You on the crumbling seawall. You on the edge of the bay. You with the royal coat, you with the haughty golden eyes, with your beak to the mango sky, breeze ruffling you as if by command.
You feel nothing while this heart screams, Who exactly am I to think I am I?
You are completely and wholly you. Without question; without choice. Pride not an expression of belief or thought, but of being. Hunger not an expression of desire or dreams, but of being.
You with your beak to the sky, being, the beginning and the end of the analogy, the because as final answer.
You all you all the time.
I wanted to wear your coat of blue and grey feathers and indifference. I wanted to be the whole truth of me all the time without knowing or caring for it, totally indifferent to the very fact of my being. Not feeling, just being, doing, partaking in causality because. I wanted to be the because as a final answer of being. Just because. There is no question of truth. It just is. Being the be. The ultimate expression of G-d’s purpose without pretense. To be my purpose without my self in the way.
Heron, your indifference, your beak to the sky, your unmoving, ruffled stance on the crumbling seawall, your staunch you-ness, it’s so easy for you. To be you. You through and through.
You will never be lost, will you? Does it matter?
Yes, span your wings. My desire outspans them, outspans you. Flight is wasted on you.
Now the clouds darken, the sky burns in the west as the curtain of night crawls pernicious as a plague of doubt.
When the coffee drinks as thick as wine and the stars paint the tongue November – smoked, fired bright as shattered diamonds hanging bountiful in the boundless forest of night – you’re still there on the crumbling seawall – held together merely by the solidity of the ages – waves slanting a charge, deepening the cracks.
The world burns. War rages. Indifference remains the day to day costume dressed in expressions of concern.
As the rain begins, you lift into a stream, a path of air, and away. Dead golden eyes, silent in the face of my screaming heart.
I can not wear your coat. I would fly right out of my bones with loud love for all there is to the gift of that very span of wings, that path of wind, that known direction.
That love can not, does not, will not suffer your feathers, your indifference. Metaphysics is in the streets —