Diana Woodcock Indistinguishable I’m a tad bit like the Orange Tip— in day flight quite conspicuous. But come night, settled in on a flower head— wings folded—I blend in to my background, sound of jazz, become nearly indistinguishable. No longer pressing myself into everything—stressing and obsessing—no longer devouring, I’m allowing life to be enough—simply breathing and being. I become light, weightless, and in the darkness mysteriously bright from the radiance and presence of something(one) immortal in the portal of silence. Tranquillité d’esprit. I am free. No longer in a whirlwind, I blend in. Alone, I listen to the music of saxophone or trumpet, and realize there’s nowhere I’d rather be save perhaps in the company of a family of elephants, with its wise matriarch like an angel holding all the knowledge needed for survival. In the darkness, blending in, I pray for those who sin against the elephants and earth, who kill and do irredeemable harm, and I search for words to trumpet the alarm. Indistinguishable from the depth, I hold my breath and wait in the darkness, longing to hibernate through the oncoming winter. 178
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