I stare at the flowing river, and, for a moment, it seems still, as the world whips into a wild ride of vertigo, leading me to question all I believe about the still & the moving. Everything that's still is spinning, orbiting, and expanding Everyone who's still is a seven-jetted space monkey on a rocket ride.
to sit beside a river
is to be Still
amid a moving world
a sweet break
from being that which moves
through the world
a little rain
on a little slope
races seaward
the world blurs,
my brain strains to track
its motion
in stillness
one loses the world’s
steady spin
i throw myself
to silly dance — joyous
that i can
the perched raven
still swivels its eye
in stone mode
Thru-hiking a sheep-cropped pasture,
I spied a shepherd in repose,
in the shadow of a boulder.
I asked, “Do you know which way it flows?”
“It flows? What flows? the creek below?”
“I know the creek must flow downhill.
I mean how I flow through the world,
or it through me — by force or will?”
“I know when I lie here it slows,
between the bleats and blowing winds,
and I wonder through shaded eyes
whether the world is still in spin?”
I nodded, wandering on, wondering whether the world would stop for the likes of me.
