You Wounded Miracle
Where can we go? Is there a hope where we are? Over us pass galaxies, gas clouds, black holes, unfathomable light years away, beyond numbers and calculations, and there is nowhere else we can go. Even those mysterious stones in Death Valley that leave a trail across the scorched sand, taking millennia long strolls and no human has seen them move, but the next year they have moved maybe a centimeter, maybe a meter, in a heat that leaves no room for life. Sitting here a couple of hours listening on the edge of autumn, listening to a fraction of the month-long migration, millions of ruby-throated hummingbirds flying south for the winter, their wings a blur, their hearts at rest beat 250 times per minute, their speed and acrobatics around the red bird feeder phenomenal, their delicate chatter another conversation. The soul listens hard to the stones, to the birds, to what they are saying, about this wounded miracle, our wounded miracle.