a question for tamarisk

Sometimes, humans like to speculate
about what makes humans
so unique, and special, and different from
everybody else

It is a good question
so, this afternoon, while exploring the subliminal mysteries
of a canyon, I asked a stately Tamarisk tree
what she thought of it

While I was waiting for a reply
I noticed her small pink flowers
wind-dancing so sensuously the bees
could not help but join their bodies with her
until she sends them home
drunk on pollen and passion

I touched her bark
delicately veiled with spiders webs
the parade of ants climbing her chest
the caterpillar navigating the folds
of her belly
and I felt the earth tilt
a little

I felt her roots
dark and knotted
wedded to the soil in such a profound way
I could not honestly tell you
where she ended and the canyon
began

As I kneeled and caressed the ground at our
feet, thick with decomposing leaves
a bed for coyotes and deer
food for grubs
gifts to the land
my stomach lurched
and I knew I was in trouble

If Tamarisk does not begin at her root
tendrils or end at
flowers, then to whom
do I address
my question?

I am not long for this world

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