Unscathed but scared. It was yet another Great White attack in the open immensity of the deep blue. Here it comes charging again [or does it merely come?], his sawtooth grin now above the waters... My fist pushes it away.
The stalking has been relentless and my hand shakes in profound crying at this lonely, tragic fate
[echo of danger and fear experienced swimming in an unsafe and uncertain biological womb?]
Yet i must swim in this ocean ― it is who i am, this is what i do.

My kinship with trees runs deep but this Whitebark individual is special: the isolation, the solitude, the archetypal grandness of the setting... An ancient storm has broken off its massive trunk and a good half of the remaining half is dead. Yet the tree survives and keeps on growing, old, reaching for the unfathomable and the mystery.
‘Solitude’?.. Maybe not, for in that tree lives a bird. Think of it as a symbiotic relationship: tree provides shelter and the wisdom of the old, bird brings movement and the delicate fragility of a transient life.
I myself seek shelter and wisdom tonight ― burying the bivy amidst the glorious broken ruin of twisted limbs. But hold on: my elf hoodoo hat is missing! The irreplacable p-r-e-c-i-o-u-s... That cannot be! Panic sets in. At just that moment bird flies off the tree and hits ― BAM ― the top of my head (where the hat should have been).
Is the bird trying to say: “This is my tree”? Or do i just happen to be in the way of a routine and precise off-the-tree back-to-the-tree flying circuit? I can’t ponder these imponderables right now: where is my hat?! It’s heavy relief when the hat is located in a never-used-for-that-purpose-before-pocket.
Now, what is the message of the spirit bird?

Decades of exile have made me an old, poor, wise-eyes itinerant musician in Uzbekistan. When a messenger informs me of her death, out of the sand the sickle of truth is dug, blinding light of the sun reflecting off the curved blade [like the eclipse to come]. It is time for the story to be told...

Seeking to experience what our distant ancestors went through i deny myself the warm jacket at hand and tremble uncontrollably...emotion sets in, the trembling goes up a notch...on the eclipse glasses the last sliver of sun, light, life, diminishes to a point and disappears...the screen goes black, a second goes by... Take off your glasses dummy!
Near catatonic state of shock ― the body stops trembling.