The Jungle

The jungle is never quiet

When the wind moves, the leaves tense first

When a bird takes flight, the air remembers its direction

They have lived there for a long time

always alert, always listening

their body reacting before thought arrives

One day, a stone flew from somewhere

In the instant it touched the ground

their body remembered old lessons:

What did I do wrong this time?

This time, something shifted.

They looked down and noticed

there was no blood,

only the echo of another’s pain

They saw it clearly now

not everything that strikes them

is meant for them

They picked up the stone,

did not throw it into the fire

but placed it beside the embers

Slowly it grew warm

and began to reflect the light

In that dim glow

they saw their own hands

not broken

but still capable of making

something of their own

The jungle murmured again

They listened

but no longer to every sound

Now they could tell

which noises were worth hearing

and which were only passing weather

They stayed awake,

but no longer afraid

Their attentiveness had become

a gentleness toward the world

The Spell:

This is my story of survival

but I hope one day

the light of your jungle will meet mine