Mid morning —
The bird wobbles across the garden.
He picks a twig, lets it go.
He goes towards a fallen bougainvillea flower, turns away.
He flies onto a branch, sings a few notes.
We seem to always have a place to go,
a goal to reach,
a purpose to fulfill.
Couldn’t we just be aimless?
There may be some wisdom in this somewhere.
Inspiration: reading Chuang Tzu on a Spring morning in a garden.