Death is a Pigeon

Life is a new canvas, floating in your mother’s palm.

Life is deer grazing amongst blue winter grass. Life is the sound of hooves and the taste of blowing sand. It is the austere harmony of a Zen rock garden.

Life is sexy music, spicy-hot enchiladas and stacks of yellowed journals. It is the salsa and the gossip that floats on city breezes.

Life is apple rings fried in bacon, followed by a walk on the beach, raging winds driving the rain sideways. Life is frosty nights and blue-sky days.

Life is the feel of a coral sunset over a slow-moving river. Memories of jungles and deserts and dark winds from Java. And if you really listen, you can still hear the high plains drums in New Mexico, for deep inside of you is the spirit of your past.

To live life, to truly live life, we must do everything with flair and a sense of fantasy, looking beyond the weight of our own mortality. Otherwise life becomes nothing more than a plain old bad habit.

For death is a pigeon flying off with straw in its beak, romance riding its shoulder as it heads for home