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.