Never again will we entertain this tyranny that wears a thousand divisive masks but is always a scared and greed-scarred child-man hiding behind a curtain.
Moments just arrive, or collide, with the last thought, the last action. Bird food/imminent death. Dog barking/missile attack. The expected/the unthinkable.
We are the bird and the work is the song, and we must sing it while we can. And when this song comes not from a desire to please or to prove or to achieve, but from a profound and earnest longing in the sacred nucleus of us, it is holy work too.