Incurable and unbelievingin any truth but the truth of grieving,I saw a tree inside a treerise kaleidoscopicallyas if the leaves had livelier ghosts.I pressed my face as closeto the pane as I could getto watch that fitful, fluent spiritthat seemed a single being undefinedor countless beings of one mindhaul its strange cohesionbeyond the limits of my visionover the house heavenwards.Of course I knew those leaves were birds.Of course that old tree stoodexactly as it had and would(but why should it seem fuller now?)and though a man’s mind might endoweven a tree with some excessof life to which a man seems witness,that life is not the life of men.And that is where the joy came in.
Monday, February 4, 2019
From a Window
Posted by David Angsten at 2:32 PM