If brains were birds, my brain would be a crow,
Collecting all the shiny things I see.
A hummingbird, it flitters to and fro:
Now here, now there, in every place I'll be.

If brains were fish, I'd be a swimming shark,
Which never stops or slows, or it may drown.
Or no—a school of minnows in the dark,
That flash with fractured light: a broken crown.

But brains aren't fish, nor are they birds that fly;
No species can contain my mental part.
And as I look towards the sea and sky,
A multitude of thoughts leap from my heart.

And like the beat of wings or sound of rain,
The constant hum of thoughts is my refrain.

Hello! What’s this? What’s happening to me?
I think—a thought! I’ve never thought before!
In fact, I’ve never been an “I” before.
Who is this “I”, who I suppose is me?
And what, now, do I mean by “who is ‘I’”?
How did I come to be here, and for what?
And while I’m on the subject, where is “here”?

Oh dear, I’m getting rather tangled up;
These thoughts I’m thinking make so little sense.
It might be better if I start again
And think my thoughts along a different path,
Like maybe what I feel, not what I think.

This new sensation that I feel—it feels…
Well, if I must describe it I suppose
It yawns, or maybe tingles, in my—hmm.
It seems that if I want to make a way
Ahead in what I think I’ll call “the world”
I’ll need to think of names to call these… things.
So now, this place in which I feel that thing
That I am feeling shall be called, let’s see,
A “stomach”. Yes, I like the sound of that.

Oh dear, the stomach-feeling’s getting strong.
It’s getting really very, very strong.
And there’s this whistling sound—and roaring, too—
That’s rushing past what I will call my “head”.
What shall I call this noise? Oh, I know, “wind”!
It’s not a great name, but it has to do.
I’ll name it something better when I know
What “wind” is for. It must be something good,
At least important, since there is so much.

Oh, hello there, what’s this new piece of me?
What shall I call you—ooh, I think you’re “tail”.
This tail’s a satisfying thing to thrash!
It feels like something I’m supposed to do,
Though why I’d need to do it I can’t tell.
Perhaps if I keep thrashing (so much fun!)
I’ll figure out the purpose of my tail.

Now, have I thus far formed myself a view
Of who I am and what I am and where
I am that is at all coherent? No.
Ah well, no matter then, I still have time
To learn about this “world” and “wind” and “tails”.
It’s so exciting, this whole “being” thing!
There’s quite a lot I’m looking forward to.
I’m dizzy with anticipation, or
Perhaps that’s just the feeling from the wind?
There is a lot of that, I have to say;
And always more, increasing oh-so-much.

But, wait, I’ve noticed something down below!
What is this thing so fast approaching me?
It’s coming up towards me on all sides!
At such a speed… and such a size!
This thing, it is so big and flat and round;
I need to name it something big and wide.
Perhaps an “ow”… an “ound”… a “round”… a “ground”?
I like that, “ground”! Now that’s a name that fits.
I wonder if it wants to be my friend—?

***

At once, a thud: a massive crash: a splat
That thunders all across the planet’s crust.
And as the echoes multiply and fade,
The dust and silence settle down once more.

But in the sky, another consciousness:
A bowl of flowers now—it’s falling fast…
But only with one solitary thought.
“Oh no,” think the petunias, “not again.”

As nomads through the forest deep and dense,
Towards the river troop the weary band.
Discomfort raises voices and dissents
With wishes that their homes were near to hand.

Their weary legs, reluctant in their pace,
Belie the trav’lers’ longing to return;
And brambles striking each one in their face
Leave countenances discontent and stern.

But lo! The river’s roar the ear assaults,
And though the party longs to stay and rest,
All rest with end so near is void and false;
And by this they are stirr’d and on are press’d.

Yet silken phantoms, creatures of the mind,
Are sitting still, as though they’d stayed behind.

It's one of those glorious summer days.
The ones where the hills—spun with gold—sit stark against the vivid blue sky like cutouts.
There are some clouds lightly feathering the hills, but none over the sea;
Nothing lowers over the horizon except for cargo ships, lurking far too large and far too close.
The sun is hot, but the sea is cold.
The surf relaxes my soul, with waves crashing around my shoulders and splashing about my hips.
There is peace in the distant tidal roar, and in the constant, indecisive push towards the shore and pull towards the depths.
There is no time out there:
No was, no later, only the eternity of seafoam.

Creeeeeaaak.
Shuf-shuf-shuf-shuf. Sigh.
Shuf-shuf-shuf. K-shunk. Rummage-rummage. Rustle. Bump-kshunk.
Shuf-shuf-shuf. Rustle, thunk, fuwp.
Swish-crik. Clang-clatter-CLUNK. Swish-bang.
Clunk. Click.
Rustle-rustle. Rustle. Pat, pat, schrUNK-click.
Rumble. Clink-clink. Rumble-bang.
Shhhhhunk.
Thap. Sssssssss.
Fwip, tok.
Tap-tap. Crack, sizzle.
Rattle.
Tap-tap. Crack, sizzle.
Rattle.
Fwu-pop, rustle.
Shuf-shuf-shuf. K-shunk. Rustle. Fuwp. Thunk. Bump-kshunk.
Shuf-shuf. Clatter. Shuf-shuf. Clu-tunk.
POP!
Rumble. Clank-clank. Rumble-bang.
Ship-plunk. Ship-plunk.
Slide. Plap. Slide. Plap.
Click. Clunk. Clank.
Krrrk-krrk. Krrrk-krrk.
Rumble. Clink-clink. Rumble-bang.
Crunch-runch-runch. Crunch.
Mmmmm.