Tossed Waters.

Most feathered friends have taken off in flocks heading south by now. I read this poem and thought of them…wish I were in their feathers right about now, weary, tender and happy to be soaring with friends sans regrets to be leaving the cold behind. Have they tasted from such waters and if so does it leave them chirping, oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened or is their instinct ever more second nature to welcome such gratitude for the existence and all its fleeting moments, for the wonder and all its voids, for the abundance that is ours to claim and yet we hesitate? There’s something about the waters, still or tossed, that does it for me.

At Blackwater Pond

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters settled after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time.
It tastes like stone, leaves, fire.
It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened? – Mary Oliver

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