A Log There is a log. Quiet in the woods. Life on it, within it,
all around it.

But we step over it on our way elsewhere.

We don’t even think about being that log.

We want to be bright lights. Stars. In the sky. Another sun.

Or, at least, an eagle. Flying. Not at rest.

Instead of that log we try to pull ourselves sheer force of will into the sky.

We need it. Of course. That log.

In memory of William Stafford