I watch faint silhouettes of clouds cut fjords in the last ideas of a
visible sky, soon to curtsy before retiring. From my vantage point
on the vessel I hear the ocean chop at itself with innumerous, small
cross-currents. The water is not new. The science non-fiction that
it’s been here a billion years, and will be here probably billions more,
reminds me how we are not even a galacial hiccup or batting of an
eye. We are mayflies to the trees. We forget how insignificantly
precious and precise our every decision is. We take breaths
unconsciously, as if they are limitless, when being conscious of just
one breath can be a salve for the spirit, a grateful nod to a soul
we dream outlives our breathing. Water, earth, and sky will dance
together the same, long after we become forgotten bones. Worry not
who we are meant to be; marvel that we get to be. That they make
us be and let us be. That we get to be just one of their unconscious
breaths, just brief enough for us to pursue peace and witness magic.