Where You Start and Where You Are Right Now

Are they not the same?
Or are they two points
You use to plot out
How far you’ve come, how
Much turf you call yours?

There are maths for that,
But not for this—songs
(They’re not, or not yours,
Not us, what yours are,
But let’s call them that)

Burst out from the pines,
And the beats of beaks
Drill on the thick bark,
And lives call out harsh
Rough calls to warn off

Or to lure in mates,
And it’s spring up here,
And full of fresh sap
For now, in a drought,
Yes, but not dry yet.

For now, time to shout
And run in the sun
And stock up and move
On, since you’re life, since
Life lives, lives on life.

Down in the fast towns,
A spring day’s not much
More than a work day—
Folks these days just choose
Which days are for free

Play—it takes a storm
Or a fire, a plague
To wake up the towns
To the fact they’re made
For and full of lives.

But up here, your lives
Hid in dirt and trees,
In roots and in caves,
Treat this as a day
To get big, to race

The sun. The bones don’t
Know a great drought’s on;
The genes were well-mixed
By the wet years, dry
Years, ice-cold years, hot.

This day feels like spring,
And you’ll act like it.
There’s time but no space
To start in where you
Are, no maths for that.