Winnowing

It happened when the grass was flowering:

pale puffs of dust, appearing with a breeze, or even from a tiny beetlelanding on a stem. Just enoughto send life outward.Snipe stood on a log that morning, just watching.I thought about the sound he makes as he flies all nightand he watched me, and I watched him, and as usual, the sun rose.The good from bad, it seems the thoughts, or feelingsare of different weights. Tossing them to the windwhat blows away from me are good feelings.What falls to the earth are the bad thoughts.Which seem to pile up.But what is good, or bad, to a snipe?Or to a tiny granule of contained lifesent forth by a beetle's landingor the hum of a flies wing?Snipe stands on one leg and scratches his head, watchesme, pollen, trees, beetles, sunrise, and as alwaysthings I can't yet see.What do you see snipe? What does the winnowing sound of your night flights mean? Why this morning do you stop, on a log, to watch me? Have your eggs hatched? Do you knowif your nestlings will have a marshy home?Or are such thoughts beyond you?You must be just a piece of life itself.Not good, not bad, but beautifulfully real, and peaceful.Your silent morning log watch and scratch, your handsome, calm brown eyesare a gift to me.

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