August 30, 1999: Sick is the mind that doesn’t watch life
A bird and its perch—a homeless man and his box, does a bird sleep in the same place twice? Am I too deep for even a bird to fly? Feathers I notice on the ground—from perches they fall, to place within a special box…as blessed by he who is my father. I sit and listen—almost never paying to much attention. I don’t want to get caught, for a bird’s perched words are thought for other perched creations. I am only here to catch the seeds that fall from their craw.