It is ME (it’s here, it’s there)

It’s here, it’s there. It’s entirely discernible. It’s in the pink legs of the pigeon at dawn. The pigeon stares at you and coos: it’s ME. It’s in the pink streaks in the morning sky, it’s the thin ray of light on the rose leaf that grows hidden against the shed, and stammers: it’s ME. It’s the turtle that keeps climbing up the curb and tumbling down over and over again, whispering: it’s ME.

“It’s ME,” says the salamander in the grass. It’s US, the sparrows sing on the roofs, the winged working folk of the heavens. It’s ME, says the peacock, and he spreads his colored splendor like a high-end fashion model. It’s US, the tigers and lions and panthers roar with their brightly colored skins. It’s US, the monkeys scream, swinging from tree branch to tree branch. It’s US, the starlings sing on the tramway.

It’s ME, chirps the tit on the forest floor. It’s US, the streams confess, rustling silently by low-hanging branches and rhododendron bushes. It’s US, the treetops sing, their crowns folded together like hands. For thousands of years they have been the watchers of the forest, for thousands of years stripes of sky-blue have fallen to the earth, like long fertile fingers. For thousands of years, people have been staring at a deliriously flowing sky.

It’s here, it’s there. In every gesture the sky empties itself into deliriously gushing streams. Sparks of light leap everywhere, life swells from underground passages, there is music, there is dancing, there is the sea, there’s the crying of gulls above crystal white dunes, there is the waving of helm grass, there is the call of the lapwing and the wild goose, there’s drifting sand and wind against dune tiles, there is wood rot in fences, there’s rain, and dew drops on flower buds.

It’s ME, whispers every grain of sand. It’s ME, thunders every lightning bolt that pierces your heart and sets your mind on fire. It’s ME, say the clouds that soften your brain and make you long for deeper adventure. It’s ME, says the gust of wind that flogs your face, the cold that beats your fingers, and the heat that taps into a new passion within you. It’s ME, say your own blood, your own breath, your own heartbeat.

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