Roots, Revolvers, and Ruby Waterfall


Rooted stillness
Certainty in extended fingers
Patiently stretching, reaching out
Savouring the sun’s gentle caresses
Veins exposed
The soul longs to fly
Running in place
Resisting until carried by foreign winds
Free from the last strand of attachment
A bird
Then a feather
Detached from bodily strength
Floating to earth
Disintegrating into soil
The soul sustains the rooted one.


Revolvers kill.

To revolve is to move in a circular or curving course or orbit.
Does that mean if I kill you with an “r” at the end of “revolve” I will die too?
If it follows with an “s” will we all die?
How many revolvers does it take to wipe out humanity and stain the whole world red with their blood?
How long will it take for nature to devour us and our revolvers so we revolve into the dust we came from?


As I stood in a shimmering pool beneath a waterfall, I was still and watched a bird fly between the mossy rocks that surrounded me searching for nourishment for her babies. As she flew back and forth, I felt the flutter of her breast in my chest and my soul soared with her wings. She basked in the sun, and I could feel the warmth suffuse my body as we became one.


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