Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
The moment of being by Mark Vogel embodied in the un-loveable attack, perfectly timed, after the flat-bodied eyeless tick waited at the tip of the branch through hot and cold, day and night with inconceivable patience for the right moment. So strange that time slows to no motion for one of god’s creatures, and races for others. The tick meditated half-aware until the prompt appeared, then threw itself at the warm desire (me), burying its head within, immersed in blindness all feel. Noticed hours later, this act issues minor proof that fate exists, for in this pasture other ticks still wait for a close warm blood pulse, when sacred acid in the victim’s sweat will engineer the leap to essence. How many live in heat and rain and winds that pummel, but die in futility, having never tasted the culminating purpose? For only rarely is volition triggered, and most live for what seems forever in clear and palpable readiness— with quiet time itself forming sentience. So it is a miraculous connection when a tick drops and burrows into liquid, followed by the next act—a predictable death unnoticed even by its own kind.