The vine does not choose
the sun—
it leans
on faithful hunch.
A trail of ants
reroutes around a stone
without word,
but unanimous devotion.
Beneath trees,
roots cross like fingers
in prayer,
never having seen
what they worship.
The bird lifts
before thunder,
as if it dreamed sky’s intent.
We call it instinct,
but what if it’s listening?
Not to sound,
but to some tilt
inside the world?
Not thought.
Not self.
Only a turning
toward.
