Primeval equinox

My work is interrupted as swiftly as it is begun. Struggling with the epistemology of modernist fiction and philosophy, head buried in piles of paper, I glanced up at a motion in the pale sky. Ten large white shapes against the gray--a rhythm in flux between complete stillness and the fluid, metered sweeps of wings. The last time I glimpsed these birds they were gliding South, smooth as swimmers. Now I see them heralding the spring in, impervious to this belligerent frigidity and dampness. These could be the same birds I saw last fall; no way of knowing...to me, in my perception, they are the same birds because they represent the same thing. Such control and measured endurance as to pull me to my feet and urge me to throw open the door and watch them until they disappear. An ancient desire to join them is pierced by the painful, penultimate reality that my feet and legs are as roots in the soil. But they travel on, compelled by the beat of their own wings and some soft rhythm in the cosmos--so strong a vibration that each tissue thrills. My ears are numb; nonetheless my lungs, heart, and groin all feel the same pull. Gravity. Rotation. Deep forces urge us to flock and breed...in the springtime, I am bent further--though gently--towards my own animal nature. Violence, lust, and maternal tenderness all stir under the insistence of the warming sun. My form pleads for music, sex, song, wine, and dance...an urge to hedonistic indulgence in the ease of natural pleasures. Easter Sunday, and pagan surges of electrical strength send sparks from my scalp and fingers. Crushed by ecstasy--death and life dissolving into one perpetual resurrection. Amen.