u/Jflicca

I am scattered among blades of grass and swarms of bees.

Among spiders weaving delicate worlds and towering trees.

I am not separate from the moss beneath your feet or the birds above your head.

I become each of them.

Drawn along nerves.
Coursing through veins.
Searching as roots.
Unfolding into wings.

Never have I grown accustomed
to the first breath.

Or the last.

I have crossed both thresholds
more times than I can count.

Still, they unsettle me.

One of me comes back to the others.

I remember it all.

Darkness settles over me
and lights appear.

One by one.

The wind never claimed you.

No bird carried you away.
No river learned your name.

You just fell.

A small seed striking earth, bouncing once, then rolling into shadow under a stone.

You sprouted there,
in the dark.

The heavy hand of soil resting on your brow.

Your roots did not seek the world.

They traveled downward.

Through dry layers.
Through forgotten years.
Until they found water the sun could not steal.

Above,
the seasons passed.

You still hear distant footsteps,
listening for something else.

A gentle knock against the rock.

A seed.

Someone stretching

into the deep.

The owl sat on her branch,
perfectly still.

A shadow, cast in moonlight,
stretched across the meadow as if it
owned the land below.

The fox trotted out of the woods,
through the tall grass, looked up at her and asked,
“What are you staring at?

Sheep?
Wolves?”

“The whole dance,” said the owl.

“The shepherd.

The flock.

The waiting jaws—

It’s all very educational.”

The fox spotted an old tortoise
grazing nearby.

Without a second thought,
he bounced over,
planted his paws on the tortoise's shell,
and settled in as if it had always been his.

“I see the same," he said lightly.

"I, too, see how easily it will all end.”

They sat there, in the glow of their own cleverness.

“Excuse me,”
said the tortoise,

slowly turning his head.

“You’re excused,” replied the fox.

“I am not a stool."

"Nonsense, you’re perfect.

Wide base. Nice view.”

The owl clicked her beak.

“You are a shameless one.

You are dangerous too.

I see the hunger
you think you disguise.
And the cunning you wear like a hide."

The fox smirked.

“And you?

You freeze. Too slow to try.

You sit and judge, yet fear the fall,
and your stillness binds you
most of all.

And you are so joyless.”

A moment passed.

The tortoise yawned,
then calmly said:

“You two are exhausting.

From down here,
I don’t see much difference —
two hungry animals thinking they are better than everyone else.

You are both too sure and pleased with yourselves."

Neither of them answered.

The fox leapt down,
and trotted off into the grass,
slightly limping,
like his pride had been grazed.

The owl turned her head away and kept watching the field.

The tortoise remained where he was.

“Same dance, every night,”
he muttered, and went back to chewing clover.

We hold our breath—
but there was no waiting for this.

Or did we sit somewhere
in the dark
hoping to exist?

Was there a “before”
we had to get through?

One moment

reality had no witness

and then

you.

Breathing.

Looking out
through your own eyes.

It’s easy to forget
how strange that is.

How small it feels
for something so big.

I don’t know if you agree, but from where I stand
it doesn’t feel unlikely.

It feels like this was
where we would always arrive.

Brief arrangements
of the same unfolding—
in this strange,
unasked-for offering.

—

We have nothing but time.

So if our paths cross,
and your hand finds mine—
let it stay there for a little while.

Maybe that’s enough
to make it matter.

—

Not some big answer.

—

Not some final meaning.

—

Just the fact that
out of all of that—
we’re the ones
who got to be here
and feel this.