Occasional birds sweep by
in straight lines
low above me,
as I sit in the garden,
the rippling water of the pond
a distant, sonic glimmer,
the warmth of direct sunlight
on my skin,
but the air is a mountainous air;
brisk, fresh, pleasantly cool;
the mountains
with their glaciers and pockets of snow
not so distant

The sharp sounds
from the hunters's shooting range
ring through the swooshing of wind
through trees,
the trees dancing their windy folk dances,
birches glittering their foliages
out of Viking Age accounts,
spruces swaying out of medieval fairytales,
pines maintaining their stamina,
come what may

Today is a precursor of autumn;
summer at its sweetest
in thin air
and a cold, gusty breeze

Impermanence
the accepted form of existence
in this universe,
warm sunlight on my cheek
and hands,
cool air flying my hair
around my head,
fondling my readiness to perceive
with all my senses,
as the sentient being I am;
a planetary dweller
with a wide-open mind,
much closer to death than distant from birth,
having returned today
from an early morning excursion
with Anna and her sister Stina
and the doggy Aro
to a rock-blessed mountain
called Claw Mountain
eight mountain bike kilometers from the farm

Sitting in this sun and wind
in the garden
is a Zen sitting
if ever there was one,
while the hunters practice
for the looming hunting season
at the shooting range,
about to open for the kill

The language spoken today
is all but imperceptible
throw the grass,
but bumble bees
and unidentified flying creatures
are poetically outspoken
in the lingo of buzzing wings
and hovering hulls

Nothing isn't going on

This garden moment
is a kaleidoscope of worlds,
all at the same timelessness

We outlive ourselves here,
butter on rye,
as I read Rebecca Solnit's Knot
out here
in this open, late summer garden,
in tears I don't know the reason for,
thankful
for the nothingness of everything,

my hearing
painting a wobbly line
of a buzzing fly
at the tail end
of this text