There is a blackbird in my garden. When it sings, the space it holds brings rain.
Each droplet streams through it, tearing at feathers, the beak, and dark eyes. He hops along not realising death and no-birth.
The wind carries him easily but he doesn't care if it takes him here or there. From empty space to empty space. In a billion lifetimes, nothing got left behind.
There is a blackbird singing the Heart Sutra.
Something clings to it for meaning.
Rain pours then fades away.
He folds the cosmos under his wings and returns to silence.
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