Sometimes

 

Sometimes
the dog will stop me at a place in the woods where

the play of sunlight through the lattice of branches

married with the lick of the wind,

the particular green of the moss on the bough,

its angle against the blue of the sky,

the high trill and low woof of hidden birds,

the flit and scurry of the tree creeper,

the slap of the pigeon’s wing,

the bounce of the robin on the dirt floor

and a thousand other details of the moment

push me through a door

beyond which
the distinctions

between Nature’s multitude and

the “I” to which I cling
break down

rendering me present

in a way

to which I am unaccustomed.

It is hard to hang on to your head beyond the door.

Hard to hold that degree of concentration.

So, the moment passes,

the door closes

and the dog is chasing rabbits.