A Pull, A Return
The snake coils in the sun,
spectacles sheathing her eyes,
trunk warming against the earth.
They say she feels nothing,
only the hiss of hunger,
the strike of instinct.
But watch—
how she lingers where the light is softest,
how she curves herself into the shape of what she trusts,
how she returns, again, to nest in the mesquite.
The crow does not speak in ways we understand,
only leaves the glint of something small,
a silver coin at your feet.
He waits on the wire,
head tilted,
as if listening for an answer most cannot hear.
The oak does not hold,
but their roots tangle deep with another’s,
sharing water in the dark—
sharing nerves—
sharing networks.
Even the river does not let the stone go—
not yet.
Perhaps Love is beyond what we define it—
something older, quieter…the
macrocosmic marrow of all things—
a pull, a return, a reaching toward.
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2025
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