by John A. Roof
I saw a turtle the other day -- it had been clipped by a car. His front right leg and shell had been badly broken and smashed, and yet he continued to cross the road. He was trying with all his might to reach the safety of the tall grass at the side of the road and looking for peace. My guess was that this would be his final resting place. I could feel his pain and his lonely death, and yet there were no tears.
I watch my tree in the evenings, as the fading sun softly strokes it with its final gift of life for this day. The evening brings to life many new voices coming together in a song of life often ignored by those in a hurry. I listen to the songs of the locusts, trying to define the words, and knowing my inability to understand them. I know they say it's a call for a mate, but then you think about this seventeen year "Brigadoon" life the locust lives -- only twenty-four hours of life once every seventeen years.
I believe this is the cry of a new born baby: it wonders what lies ahead and what sadnesses of life are in store for him. Whatever life brings its song, it is a sweet sorrow to one's soul. All the while, even the cricket is calling to you to say good night to the final light of the day.
I look forward to the new light and the new hopes of the next day. The gentle breath of wind stroking each leaf with a final caress as it continues on to another tree, then another, always looking for the perfect resting place. If this wind could be followed, will it someday return to this place, as I hope my soul will, too, someday return to its place of peace?
I watch the flight of the dragonfly in disbelief, as it turns and drops, and then climbs to new heights of unknown destinations we will never know. Its grace in the air is an invitation that beckons us to join in its endless flight. Only a free spirit can join its pursuit in search of a life known only to angels ...
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