It started with a scent. A scent of rustled leaves beginning again as oblation, an offering to the succession of life and death. It blew through the open window and disturbed the steady breath of frosty mornings. Is this the disturbance wild geese feel?
A row of cells divide and suddenly they are off, pummeling the air with their beating wings, cutting the sky like the tip of an arrow. Forward, always pointing forward.
They are not in search of warmth like the rest of us, but rather food, because they know if they settle, caught up in the rhythm of one place too long, they will starve.
Some primordial piece of you knows this too. And so you are driven onward by the sensuality of change, the industry of craving—a wild thing you feared you had lost that rears up like a grizzly declaring her place in the world.
You cup this thing, this consciousness between your hands and let it trickle like river water between lobed fingers until it is nothing more than a memory—a luscious reminiscence that you will carry like a burden until you are lifted again from your bed by the instinctual scent that keeps us moving forward.