A Tree on Purpose

Maybe it’s the way this bird knows me.

A Tree on Purpose

Then dove.
Then stabbed.
Then grabbed.
Then set down,
And ate the catch
The size of his head.

He knows;
That I’m here.

It’s raining;
I’m in the car.

He noticed;
And walked over.

He always sets up;
A straight line of sight.

I’m indicative;
Of something to him.

A sign of what;

I keep people away.

Writers build libraries from the inside out.
So when we sit, take out pen and paper,

(Laptops don’t do it. Everyone types everywhere now.)

Our whole aura is encapsulated by shushes
From Hush Be-Quiet Librarian Sentries.

(A Heron's pick of habitats: A Library on a Lake.)

People keep away the birds that bother.
Books keep away the people that pester.

How’s the energy? Mine I mean. For him?
Lord, I exhale when I see him again.

He keeps coming back. Not to the same spot.
The same spots, by the shore, where I am.

This energy stuff, this life and light alive stuff,
This consciousness stuff, it works every way.

All is alive.
All is conscious.

What we choose to do,
With the energy given us,

Is what
We are.

I have to believe each tree is a tree on purpose.

I can’t define how or why I know it, maybe it’s the way this bird knows me.
Maybe it's how he lands and lines up a straight shot in my passing lane.

I don't know the ball we pass, or what the court is,
But I do know that we are on the same team.

And I know he clears a way for me to get to him,  
And I know that what is shared is returned.

But what does this floor mean...?
And what game do we play...?

What is our way...?
And why is it...?

I don’t know what I am. Not sure any of us do.
I don’t think this Great Blue Heron does either.

But when he stands in my passing lane with a clear shot,
I know without a doubt both of us are more than at peace,

In not knowing;