Witness
The tree stands, unobserved, unnoticed. The unmoving branches snapped and twisted, their goal just out of reach.
A falcon glides above, and with it a cacophony of all the sounds of the forest, an orchestra of natural, unfiltered noise.
The branches are given life, silent no longer, now rustling, now shaking with vitality-
And you can hear the shimmering of the sun, the rushing of the clear stream, but most of all you can feel the warmth, rays of dazzling sun, blistering, warming the joy of movement- liberated; uncaged and free.
The bird is not a creator, not something to be worshipped. It is lens, not maker. It does not understand time, though manipulates it. Soaring, each beat of its wings a tick of a clock, Time slipping from oaky hands as the bird begins to shrink and blur.
Then it is gone, a silhouette against the evening sun. All is fossilised, memories etched into the bark of life, and it is quiet.
Theo Fairley
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