The mist of the mountains
Sang like the birds it helped fly that morning.
Over the breeze, such little things.
On a branch,
One landed to wish him well and he acknowledged it's presence in awareness only.
He turned the corner and saw the sun as it emerged from the fog.
This would be the last day of the cycle.
Across the sky,
A few birds braved.
With their chirps of joy,
He closed his eyes.
He knew each and every step of the way, for he had been this way before.
A caterpillar
Had died the night previously, and it's spirit now flew on the wings of a Monarch.
The tide
Was massaging the coast, and the man moved with the rhythm of the waves.
Each step was known, and he had been coming up this path for the last 50 years of his life.
When he fell through the ledge it was with a smile that he did.
The sun
Rose to begin the morning,
The birds
Went to find food, and
The man
Fell into the depth below the nebula.
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