A sense of ground, a need for here
I don’t always have it at the end of the day. I’m flustered a sea of distraction maze of ideas that small hint of what was the thing I told myself to remember and take care of who was I supposed to email again oh crap I think the laptop’s still out on the desk.
I pedal and turn the corner.
And on the good days, I look up.
The sky is every shade as the sun expertly hides. Breezes build off the ocean and trees wave goodnight to one another. The call to prayer straddles the wind, serenading these corners, reminding us it’s time to look to Mecca, to take shelter before the oppressive, stifling dark.
But mostly, it’s bats.
Tens. Hundreds. Thousands of bats meander overhead. Effortlessly, with neither sound nor fury, but purpose and destination. Always purpose and destination. Always north.
But, where? Why?
Do bugs travel too?
And if they fly north each day at dusk, when do they return? I never see them in the morning. Do they know when light is coming? What do they do every night? Who do they do it with? Who’s in charge here?
I have questions.
Mainly, though, I pause. And realize the bats will be here, heading north, tomorrow too.
My sense of here, my ground
Returns to me when I look up.