Drive

Even in drought the land is alive
Its breath is not the tiny measurements of human respiration
But it breathes
Slowly
Over years and years and years
Seen in the lay of the land
The changes in the flora over time
And we who graze upon the surface for a few short moments
Move on to be replaced by others until they too move on
I think of my niece
Her bare feet on the ground
Held aloft by countless revolutions around our star
I think of my dear friend who drives
Allowing me the luxury of inaction
I remember the towers of Osaka anchored to the bay
The millions of feet over the concrete that clothes the land
The motions of the trains underground
The trains crawling quickly over the fields outside of Melbourne

And it was incidental that I named them visitors
As I came to understand it, they visit me
Yet I am the visitor to their lands
Their history
Written in languages older than the idea of us
Then the traditionalism, the ancient spiritual abstracts begin to make sense
Very old principles translated into the most modern of paradigms
The creation
The destruction
It is beautiful
It is so old and so far beyond my feet and hands and eyes
Today I can see the whole of a thing
Only one thing
In its simplicity it is good
And I’m glad to have the cognisance required for it
Nothing of an earth-shattering epiphany
Rather the small and intimate sensation of delight when one eats one’s favourite food