Just a breath and the seeds are scattered. Just a breeze and the count is on, the multitudes shifting along the lines of fate, the possibilities taking their given chance at grace. Each shift in the atmosphere, each stirring of the shadows, each gathering of the swarms frees some taste of the inevitable. The inevitable always being measured at a backwards glance, across the safe and expert distance of time.
Certainty is a heritable trait of culture, eyes first open in the ebb and wash of language. Once the events are settled into that elder tense, once the letters have settled upon the page, the notions are set and destiny is born. History reveals all sorts of majesty, if picked at by the needful and the assured. You are here, and all that happened before was meant to secure that. You have won. So now what?
Earlier I watched a mocking bird at battle with one of my morning crows. Another mocking bird sang its dawn measure of invective and salutations, while a scrub jay worried grubs and insects along the ground behind me. Earlier still I witnessed heron and egret wading into feasts of crawdad and minnow, a duck gliding along the skin of the water, trailing duckling. The hectic assay of flock and swarm, the squabbling and the squander of all works of tidy wonder. It is not written, it is writing. Every day a blank page, every soul a clean slate.
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