We know ourselves to be made from the earth. We know this earth is made from our bodies. For we see ourselves. And we are nature. We are nature seeing nature. Nature weeping. Nature speaking of nature to nature.
The red-winged blackbird flies in us, in our inner sight. We see the arc of her flight. We measure the ellipse. We predict its climax. We are amazed. We are moved. We fly. We watch her wings negotiate the wind, the substance of the air, its elements found in other beings, the sea urchin's sting, ink, this paper, out bones, the flesh of our tongues with which we make the sound "blackbird," the ear with which we hear, the eye which travels the arc of her flight. And yet the blackbird does not fly in us but somewhere else free of our minds, and now even free of our sight, flying in the path of her own will.
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