Singing The Weeds

When pulling weeds and clearing bushes of their teeming involuntary voices, wondering what is this bush after all, what was it originally when planted on the hill…ah, here, I see now…a fruit-bearing bush with OW long thorns…birds come along and add their songs, telling my soul the point of the process is both point and process, the ebb and flow of come and go, pull and tug, drop and shrug, clip it all back and pull out clamoring sounds unneedful and especially unheedful. When along come these birds of summer and song, singing along my sweating form, the sense of being in a river, being the one to decide what enters the flow or flows along on its course away from the hill, that nourishing sense fills this being flowing me and pauses my reaching, stretching pull and tug, dig and chide at all that clamors to overtake the fruited clump of prickly growth, flows through what is not flowing within and washes it away, melting back debris, smoothing out and running along, singing the weeds and briars out, infusing the flow with potent restful action, rarely hurrying or worrying but relentlessly rolling on until the next song.

And on . . .