reading under the trees
i feel like the big secrets that hide in little rituals.
close to sunset, i've been going to read at my local park.
i leave my work, my worries, and my anxieties behind the sound of the thud of my apartment door.
i try to look at the park like i'm looking at it for the first time.
a skill i've picked up from birdwatching.
i find my spot, usually under a tree.
i was under a big fig tree today, laying on my back on the grass beneath.
before i open my book, i notice the sound of life.
kids laughing, families catching up, figbirds, currawongs' evening call, the sound of a man exerting himself.
i also notice the fig tree's branches as i look up.
they feel like arteries.
there are families on the ground, and there are families and generations on these branches, too.
as i read, time passes.
the earth moves in its orbit for the multi-trillionth time.
but here i am, a human in this time and place, still on the ground, my mind and heart wandering away.
escaping the natural orbit of the evening.
i notice the sun's warmth fading, but the colours intensifying.
a gift of yellows, from our yellow giant sun, in her orbit.
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