Tree
 

How

When I am still and listen, not letting myself start a worky thing, I hear an invisible tree creature. It burbles. I wonder for whom. What like-it lover or threat thrills at that? This moment of that sound, that tiny breath-through-reed trill, was worth my whole journey here.

 

And look at this. Isn’t it magnificent? Plaits over a girl’s hide shawl. How does a tree do this?

 

How does a tree do anything? How does it grow a frond, all fingers almost but not entirely like each other, and then another, then twenty, arranging them in perfect praise to the sky, and know when to quit; all the while creating a coil to swathe its trunk but only until the plait and shawl start the fronds’ vase?

You say genes. But how them, too? ‘God’? No. ‘God’ stops the questions. 'How God, then’? No. That takes us back to the first how. I want not to stop or start again. I want to keep rummaging, collapsing, courting the hysterics of unsated wonder and furiously, fiercely, emphatically wonder again. Genes get close, and then particles and then strings and then movement only.

 

We have no idea.  Because smart as we are, we are not smart enough, and we must wait another billion years until our mutants can get it. And there we’ll be, piecemeal as stars, the answers our very selves.