THE TURN OF THE WHEEL

There is a hushed whisper, there is a mumble. Trees crack and strain in the stiff breeze, their limbs screech and stumble. The forest floor is crisp, but tired. Leaves, generations thick, mix with bones and feathers, mix with screeches, screams and whispers. The forest is alive with fate and sighs, with a quietude and a sense of the vacuum that is thought unbound. No one is here, no one sees, no one senses the rustling of leaves, the puddling waves of moss on trees, the drone of the endless journeys of insects as they flit and dive from one momentary reality to another. All is quiet, but forever restless as the distant fox screeches and the hidden rabbit screams. Life is a circle, a turning cycle, a dream-laden pin of the wheel, the grandest of illusions. Nothing is repeated, but everything remains the same. here and gone, here and gone, from vibrant flesh to desiccated bone. Birth is welcomed by the world with a slight smile, death is greeted by a faint shrug. It's all one and the same, all part of the wheel. Nothing new, nothing old, just being for the sake of it. We can twist and turn, we can be gods and angels, we can be mud and bone, we can assemble tiers of belief, layers of disbelief. We can create strategies, move through patterns, strike up endless rhythms and chants. It means nothing. Things just are, they are not, and then they are again. It doesn't stop, it never really stops. As the buzzard glides through thermals, as the butterfly winks in the sunlight, as the tree groans heavy with flower and fruit, as the serpent rustles through long grass...it continues. The forest floor lies crisp, but tired, as the trees crack and strain in the stiff breeze.