You Are Lucky

You are lucky, you tell yourself. You saw it happen: A tree that sprung from the soil two hundred years ago sprawls along the ground. It had bent in winds so much more hurling than these.

This evening, on your walk through the woods, you've seen it fall! The mouth is agape, gathering and gathering. You watch, watch the space the tree had inhabited. Sky pours into it's space.  No one is around except you, and the animals have gone silent at their limbs.

You reflect on the initial crack that turned your head, the slow motion of its falling, and the air that swept up in a warm gust. Yet, you mostly stand at attention. It's as if by waiting, the dissipated sounds might be followed by pheromones, or a breakthrough. There will be time for calculations later. Concerns for your safety haven't even occurred. You have witnessed something sacred in this moment. You stand quiet with ringing in your ears from the cracking and that final snap of its trunk. This is worth more than what you've been eyeing in the showroom, or real estate, or trips you've craved for a while. As your eyes close, you recall friendships as a child, how your lungs filled and fainted with laughter--how everything smelled and everything meant and everything spacious. 

Spacious like the gap in the canopies before you when your eyes lift. And when a single bird begins to chirp again, you know it's time to keep going. And so you do, with the sun now beckoning at its extreme angle.