Coming home may be the first truth we recognize
without words—feet sensing receptive ground, comfort
rising from the soil as breath deepens and expands.
We are no different from the dog with its wet muzzle
lifted to the wind, savoring with senses we still possess
but long ago overrode as the noise around us mounted,
the pace quickened, the world held its axis
yet somehow whirled with greater momentum.

We forget the kinship, yet still we sense.
And in that sensing, the invisible chains
begin to loosen, then snap, dropping
with a quiet thud. Shoulders release.
The neck lengthens. Something inside widens—
and we discover we are not so unlike
the downy goose, liberated in her watery realm,
arching and flexing her neck this way and that
before tucking it once more into a ruff of feathers,
broad feet paddling slow circles, attuned
to everything within and everything without—
the unmistakable freedom
of coming Home.

Kohala winter sunset ~ bj 2025