Poetry

Measured by Moments

Parrots Cannot Seem to Fly in a Straight Line

If you had just one day, would you lament the hours gone or worship the moment here?

Regrets are useless.

For the sun slants at its usual hour, sending rainbows to dance across the hardwood floor as the light catches in the edges of the window, bathing the kittens in an otherworldly glow.

They seem to know where the rainbow will fall.

And they find their way there, cleaning fluffy toes and cheeks, with pink sandpaper tongues, preparing for a warm nap nestled in the fall of the multi-hued light.

And the birdsong stills.

And the hummers cease their pilgrimage to the feeder.

And the owl begins his search.

In some traditions, the night begins the day. Sunset is sunrise.

So, does the day begin in the beginning…

… or in the end?

And what is there, really, in the middle, but the moment, which stretches and warps in the long days of summer, yet, in the long evening of winter, seems to have gone too fast?

It was only yesterday that my kittens tumbled across the floor in that rainbow of light.

And yet, they are not all here anymore….

But, we can choose to lament the loss of those moments.

Or we can savor the taste of this day, listening to the click of the dominant hummer at the feeder, watching the sunlight angle through the pines,

hearing the parrots fly, squawking, overhead in a flock that cannot seem to stay together because parrots cannot seem to fly in a straight line.

Perhaps, they know — the parrots — that life is not composed of straight lines, but rather of meandering rainbows, and it is measured by moments, not hours.

Poem and photos ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.