A note to self, a call to the flock.
This floating world is drowning.
Don't look away.
Don't give up.
Turn to the source of all things. Listen for the call of the wind in the pines, the harrowing cry of the mountains and rivers.
Be a translator of nature. Be a poet of pine, mountain and river.
Silent illumination isn't for the trees. They're already wide awake to their original nature. It's to wipe the dust from these earthly eyes, cough it from our throats, clear our ears.
With clear eyes and pure hearts we can serve the mountains and rivers. Not for them, but as them.
Poet-friends, we are the canaries daring to test the air and report back. Forget your prophet nature and inhale, deeply. Then speak.
I was writing a memoir of the forest years. But it's too late for that.
Better to inhale deeply of a dying world and cry AWAKE, AWAKE, AWAKE! Awake to all things, you are mountain and river and earth and curse.
Take a stand. Forget developing your own voice. Go deep in silence and listen well, then speak the truth loud and clear.
It's not too soon, or too late.
Now is the time to sing, canary.
Whilst you have a voice.