bird’s-eye view


i like to sit in my wooden chair. stare up at springtime’s bare branches. black stripes against blue sky. black stripes dotted with green where life is poking through. a bird glances, beady-eyed, down. we look–him at me, i at him. then he flaps his wings and flies, and i think: how liberating. to feel the sky beneath you, the sun on your back. and then i wonder, do all trees look the same from above? do all people look the same?

it depends how high you go. slip far enough into the atmosphere, and we’re all dots. insignificant moles on the earth’s surface.

yet God knows the number of hairs on my head. his home is higher than any bird could ever fly, but somehow, he sees us all. every teardrop. every dreadlock. we’ll never escape his loving bird’s-eye view.

i close my eyes. whisper, thank you.


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