When we go walking
mother earth races
beneath tender feet.
By the time we walk
a mile, earth has run
two hundred sixty.
Ev’n if we stand still
she takes us with her
to face the whirlwind.
Sitting the quiet
no movement matters
to the moment’s turn.
Should our extinction
be looming . . . spirit
be untouched, unmoved.
From that point of view
one might as well say,
not a thing happened.
In the clear light of
the dark empty void
nothing . . . ever . . . does.
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