Through A Stork's Eyes

The lanky bird stood at the end of the pier under the spot light, its neck craning back and forth. 

It shifted from still to swaying like a snake, slowly, methodically, sweeping the shallow waters directly below.

A moon wafer cast a pale, milky glow across the bay, the lone sentinel above, lurking and watching everything.

What drove the stork to stand on the dock, too high to fish, even though his movements mirrored those of a cobra ready to strike?

Why didn’t he curl into a ball, retract his beak, rest his legs and gather warmth to rest?

Did he share the same fascination about the wee hours?

Something about the shadows, the ripples on the bay and the strange wraith-like motion of the animal captured my attention.

 I sat in my room very still, looking out the window, almost in a trance.

What would he do?

What went through his mind?

So much unknown, so much to learn.

Creatures, that for centuries and beyond have slowly morphed and adopted.

Odd appendages, keenly honed senses, highly functional tools—all specific to the game of survival and procreation.

What a bizarre juxtaposition to think of man and our antics, the trifling, hollow pursuit of the best distraction.

As the animal world seeks, over generations, to find means to strengthen and band its kind together, we, splinter and fractionalize, choose denial and self-medication couched in myriad, insidious disguises.

What happened to the quest for greatness for its own sake, to showcase and celebrate our very existence as the earth’s reigning being, the gift of this coupling of intelligence and emotion, the extraordinary rarity and privilege to be born a mammal with free will, a heart to let us feel and a voice that can share it all?

Where did this perilous laziness of spirit set in, spreading like a virus with no antidote?

Some days I sense the tiredness too personally.

It keeps my eyes at half mast without denying the dull ache in my chest.

I gaze into nowhere and ponder the loss of excellence as a standard far more worthy than competence or doctrinal knowledge.

Why don’t we do our best and dig a little deeper to build that muscle, take it further for the sake of the journey and no other reward?

Why don’t we expect and demand that of ourselves?

How can we settle in mediocrity, a murky lake of compromise covered with the floating spoils of lost dreams?

It makes me ill, scratches on my soul.

My long-beaked friend on stick limbs lists right and left in rhythmic dance.

What does he see that I don’t?