Land

I float silently down the river, sideways in a plastic boat.  My heart is heavy, voice silent, mind on mute.  All this talk of Creation and how we relate to it propels me to this wilderness to spend some time alone.  Will the rocks cry out, or the trees clap their hands?  Will the storm ripped trunks of leafless trees bow low to the coming of Creator?  I do not mourn when I see a fallen limb, or grieve at the barren wasteland or factory smoke.  But I do cringe at the appearance of a knotted tree, necklaced in a bright red sign.  KEEP OFF! It shouts in bold disgrace.  I wonder, did this tree go to the market to buy a sign? I never noticed these signs before, the other times I drifted by this island.  All around are posted these warning signs.  Creation is off limits.  This island is owned by signed deed, and I am not allowed.  Birds are no readers, and they make their nests in the trees, and flock to boughs to sing.  Trash from the river on a rainy day mingles with the branches, a marriage of inorganic and organic, to herald each day.  It to has found a place on Ash Island.  But I, I have been denied.  So I keep drifting by.  The moon, in the sky, is unreachable to me.  I thank God that it does not have a keep off sign.  Maybe it was created to make the point that not everything can be conquered and claimed. I found solice in this thought--a piece of virgin land, unadulterated and pure.  But it lasted but a second as black and white images flashed into my mind.  Yes, I seem to remember now, during the Cold War when we landed on the moon and put into the dust an American flag.  A sign of victory?  A badge to man's conquering ability?  Not a sign that says Keep Off I hope...