Murmur Lee Harp

Time doesn’t really exist where I’m at, so I’m not sure how long I sojourned with the fish. All I know is that a speedboat zipped by, kicking up a mighty wake, which propelled me onto the shore. I am happy about this. I missed the strange happenings on land and I have high hopes that I won’t be the only spirit here. Where are the Harps and Katrina and my baby girl? That’s what I want to know.

On land, I am once more at the mercy of the wind, but this time it ferries me to amazing places, setting me among the keeled scales of an indigo snake, the deep twilight pads of a bobcat’s paw, the gossamer curve of a dragonfly wing, the sky white feathers of a restless gull. I am sand, fine grains that whip through your fingers and disappear into unknown worlds. Rock, shell, crystal. Blossom, leaf, bark. Earth, fire, water. When the wind blows, I fly, all swirl and dust and chaos. When the sky rains, I become an ocean tippling in the cupped petals of a morning glory. I am the smooth, silent movement of a hungry snake. I am the eyes of eagles and meerkats. I am the pant—the hot grassy breath—of a fox at rest. I am a clutch of skink eggs and the gopher who eats them. I am metamorphosis. Maggot and butterfly. Birth and death. Pain and glory. Bone and water.

Coquina. Yes, today I am coquina, and I am learning that all of this—the wind, the surf, the moon’s faint glow, the sighs of fading stars—is plainsong.

I can hear it now.