writings from west virginia, two

The ground beneath me is so much.  We lay asphalt or tile or carpet or wood.  One substance.  Maybe patterned.  But in just one square foot of this earth there is grass, dead and alive, moss, leaves, some kind of small weed, pebbles, mud, sticks and twigs, an acorn, bark.  Such diversity, such complexity, without human touch.  We under-appreciate God's floor.

Ahead of me, forest.  Evergreens.  I forget how to distinguish the kinds, something to do with the shape of the needles.  Dense, tall.  Proud?  Nervous?  How does one take the temperature, the pulse, the blood pressure of the earth?

I see leaves floating from right to left.  They will gather at the end of the pond.  Then what?  Nature is never linear.  Or is it?  Are stars born faster than they die?  Will the universe ever end?  Will there ever be nothing again?

I speak too much.  My words have little value.  It's a supply/demand thing.

Bird flapping its wings in the tree behind me.  I want to learn to move without frightening it.  Should I stop eating meat?

My physics teacher said the waves of the ocean are compression waves.  The whole ocean is moving.