He sits on a hilltop.
He is, from his point of view,
the summit of his surroundings,
of all that supports him.
So we see ourselves, even if we don’t think we do.
So are we all on a hilltop.
Air flows by as raw experience,
bringing with it life, and the ingredients of life,
and the scents of life from other places.
The air flows by.
Some barely notice it,
enjoy the sun, rest, stretch, prepare for the inevitable descent.
But some carry with them nets and sieves of various types,
various sizes, meshes, purposes.
One spreads a net and catches in it
insects to observe, identify, count.
Another’s net catches the moisture of the air,
drips it down into their basin, water on a dry hilltop.
Another feels the planet’s pulse, its temperature, its health,
finds how it works,
drives and dives into the secrets of all life.
Yet others sieve the air, the life, passing experiences,
with nets of music, poetry and art.
But most, most barely notice the view,
focused as they are on the discomfort of sitting on a rock.