We become the bird we contemplate...

George Feuerstein, a 20^th century mysticism and yoga scholar:

We become, in consciousness, the bird we contemplate; we become the tree in which the sap circulates and which stretches its ramified crown toward the invigorating sun; we become the solar disk whose vivifying energies pour over the planets of our galaxy; we become the universe in its grand immensity and pulsating fullness. We may even become one with the tranquil center in the depth of our own being, or unite with the all-comprising wholeness of the supreme Being. On whatever level such ontic identification takes place, it always presupposes the abolition of the ordinary space-time continuum and the experience of the eternal Now.[i]

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[i] Feuerstein 1996, p. 142-3. Shambhala Guide to Yoga

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Yellow

Yellow

There is the heaven we enter
through institutional grace
and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing
in the lowly puddle.


- Mary Oliver, from Evidence: Poems

"White-Eyes" by Mary Oliver

White-Eyes

by Mary Oliver

In winter

all the singing is in

the tops of the trees

where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

shoves and pushes

among the branches.

Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

but he's restless—

he has an idea,

and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

as long as he stays awake.

But his big, round music, after all,

is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.

In the pine-crown

he makes his nest,

he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,

I only imagine his glittering beak

tucked in a white wing

while the clouds—

which he has summoned

from the north—

which he has taught

to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall

into the world below

like stars, or the feathers

of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

that is asleep now, and silent—

that has turned itself

into snow.

Source: Why I Wake Early: New Poems

The Singing

The Singing
By Misha Feigin

When I become this rain
and these dark still trees
touching the restless air
with their swollen buds,
I will be this soft humid night,
and this golden shining lamp
by the window in a quiet room.
When I become a reflection
of the lamp in your eyes,
I will become you, and you
will be a bird, perched
on a naked tree branch,
a ruffled sparrow crazy with
spring, full of longing, delight,
and pain that will become
this song, but
who will be the singer?

The Sweet Breathing of Flowers

...the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds,
the rippling of mighty waters, & the sweet breathing of flowers...
-Gertrude Simmons Bonnin [Zitkala-Sa] (1876-1938), Dakota Sioux