The Natural Order

From the top of a distant range looking as if the earths muscle and bones were stretching, arching its spine clouds drift as snow might over and down in some seasonal shift, I sit, not grasping so much the enormity of it all, or anything, as it seems compressed held curled, almost fetal in my front row seat. A bird, perhaps as lost as I lands on the porch rail while squirrels chatter and squabble over cones dropped from a pine, and acorns dug from an ancient oak, with no voice of it's own, perhaps feeling as I do about life in slow motion, moving fast forward as if in film frames passing, missed are clipped to some cutting room floor. Posted because of a suggestion of a friend