A MAGAZINE OF ZEN AND THE ARTS

The birds jangle their keys of light
opening and closing the windows of the sky
and I
brush a fly
from my left earlobe. Once
a towhee landed
on me, I was so still, so
right. But not today. Today,
the deep fronds of a
raven’s wing
push back against the world
inside my skull
saying No, no!
inside my raucous habits
I own this flight!
Right now
down here
I think I own the birds
but they own the blue
stretched so wide
above me…

relentlessly
they go by