Late August at Point Reyes
“A tree lives 100 years, and a bird perches in it just one night.”
– Afghani proverb from the Pashtun tribe
The mother tree gathers a redwood circle.
A white deer runs through the forest.
The hikers lose their way in the sunset
and the breadcrumbs run out.
A white deer runs through the forest,
gathering light that has sprayed from stars.
A dream is shivering.
A yearling tree has stretched into its first koan.
The pinecones are dreaming of a forest
as fire spreads its acres and sweeps up the hill.
Steller’s Jays fly toward the darkness
as branches begin to fall.
A woodpecker taps a message
but the crazy woman who dropped a match in the undergrowth
does not hear it.
Her nightmares become mythological birds.
Somewhere in time
prayers fly out of phoebes and nuthatches.
The chanting is in a minor key.
The notes burn across the page.
In a different part of the world,
three billionaires fly to the moon
while the rest of us try to rescue
our burning planet.
— Diane Frank
