Much of my life I cannot see.
There are seasons and storms
Taking shape on landscapes in time
My eyes and dreams do not detect.
But there are animals and especially
The spirits of birds that survey
The world at night. These strangers
In the chaos of the hunt
Order the universe for me,
Feed morsels of it to my being,
And this is how I make my way.
How to trust the other world?
How to let go of the little village
In the valley of the mind?
I head for the hills,
Take instruction from the singing trees,
Become quiet as stone
And teachable again.