I like to think about death.
Everything reminds me of it–especially
in nature, which is my favorite place to
contemplate mortality. Here, I see life
from above.
In springtime,
I pick the same leaves of miner's
lettuce,
out from under the same
butterflies.
They are not the same individuals from
the year before,
or the one before that,
or the ones all those years ago.
When I walked with a friend, and met
the miner's lettuce with wonder.
When they picked a leaf from off the
dirty ground and put it in their mouth.
What a strange thing to do, I thought.
Yet when they spent a moment of
discernment choosing the best
specimen to present to me, promising it
tasted like spinach.
I accepted the gift.
Now I come with other friends, and we
walk among other butterflies, in the
same dirt.
When I pluck the best leaf from off the
ground, and gift it to them with the
same promises, I hope they meet the
miner's lettuce the way I did.
My companion today never thinks
about death.
She runs in zig-zags, in and out of the
trail, as if auditioning for the role of
predator. Her nose dives into the grass
after a scent without a thought of
sharp grass seeds or rattle snakes. Her
only thoughts are
to run,
and chase,
and swim, which is wise.
That is why we have come here,
after all.
But as I follow her trail of wet splotches
and paw prints across the dry river
stones,
I think of the ocean of cresting waves
around us,
every species we've known for all the
years we've come here,
and I imagine us,
two members of our own
two waves enjoying the sea.
