Poetry and Writes

Bridge Between Them (WRITE)

*A write about walking home from school. Five minutes.*

Today the air was filled with conversation. I could hear it, the faint words and rustles of the trees. I could see the sky and ground listening, leaning in, wondering: How do the trees do it, how do they touch each horizon? How do they reach upwards, plucking the strings of the clouds and drawing their gray bodies nearer? How do they reach forever down, linked in the earth, linked  to the earth, holding on amidst the deep heavy churn?

I could see the crows hop from fencepost to fencepost, their eyes darting from me to the wonderful trees, pretending not to hear them, pretending not to notice me. The crows stroked each others' feathers, as if they were beyond my stumbling feet and the trees' soaring branches.

We are not so different, the crows and trees and I. One skybound, one earthbound, and the bridge between them.

I opened my mouth and told one of the haughty black birds as much. Its eyes lingered on mine a moment longer before it flapped into the air and flew off, its silence running to the bright blue sky, its silence a mourn within the canopy of trees.

I continued my way home.