The Way of the Bird

This is the season of The Birds. 

This morning I was watching Goldfinches 

chase each other through the sunny 

emptiness of April Woods

around the early green of newborn

leaves on old exploding branches.

Serious Cardinals walked beneath

the recently-filled bird feeder looking

for the scatterings of sunflower seeds.

I was standing by the Picture Window

feeling all this separation

human habitation gives me.

Meanwhile Ranjit is speaking of

the Way of the Bird, a pristine freedom,

not from my conditioning

but freedom of that unborn self,

freedom from all karmic fruit

of action, like forgiveness of

the Magnitude of Nothing to forgive.

The only picture window is

the memory of this Little Mind.

The Apple that I ate is knowledge

and it’s bitter seed belief.

I spit it out and I could watch

the Cardinals scramble for its Meaning—

but I fly away.