NOTHING OUT THERE
Nothing whatever is going on,
except the cicadas
except the bird voices
except breeze in
the pines
and the long-missed sound
of my breath, my heart,
and my voice singing to myself.
There is nothing at all to see
except sky and clouds
except butterflies and wildflowers
except
tracks of deer and 'coon by the pond
and scenes from long-lost memory:
visions of plans and hopes,
and my rippled
reflection among reeds.
There is absolutely nothing to do
once the tent is pitched
once the firewood is gathered
once
the water is carried
but walk without destination in green places
and stand perfectly still
and listen and look at
nothing.
-Author Unknown
