A Log

There is a log.
Quiet in the woods.
Life on it, within it,
all around it.

But we step over it
on our way elsewhere.

We don't even think
about being that log.

We want to be bright lights.
Stars. In the sky.
Another sun.

Or, at least, an eagle.
Flying. Not at rest.

Instead of that log
we try to pull ourselves
sheer force of will
into the sky.

We need it.
Of course. That log.

In memory of William Stafford