There is a red apple hanging from my fingertip,
My trunk rises up and my branches reach outward
And the sun shines on the side that always faces East.
Ten black birds circle above and then through me,
They talk with enormous chatter about yesterday
And each argues that they know what’s best for tomorrow.
Like a reflection, a long and slender shadow stretches out
Across the wind-blown grassy field toward the horizon
And I can see the shape of the apple as I twirl it in the air.
Maybe the birds will see what I do,
Come down to eat the fruit that I offer
And stop all of their unhealthy gossip.
This is my journey.
— Nate Long “Owl”
Oil paint on handmade paper