When I see birds chase each other through the maze of the budding fig tree without so much as touching a twig, I realize how quickly they must be processing the visual information given them by their eyes. If I view the scene at x frames per second, they must be viewing it at x frames a great many times over; it is this, perhaps, that makes them wise. Perhaps, too, this makes their lives seem to them much longer than they seem to me, distracted by the alphabet as I am.
April 6, 2020. Afternoon.
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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Alphabets, Diaries, Figs, Flight, Journals, Poems, Poetry, Time, Writing
William Michaelian 