Birdshit On A Boulder

Birdshit on a boulder is 

as real as anything could be,

at present, at least, at this very moment,

nothing could be more real.

And life in this moment is memory—

memory, short and working, seeing,

working memory making existence.

Nothing can be outside it.

Even pitch, tone frequency,

requires a sample in time,

enough time for a few vibrations.

Otherwise, sound is not.

Likewise with vision: it takes time.

Nothing exists without memory functioning, 

churning throughout sensation,

applying itself to the present, future,

allowing for thought, for the past.

And though it matters to nothing but thinking,

it seems to me true— as birdshit on a boulder.

The idea above is not original to me but stems from reading Iain McGilchrist’s The Master And His Emissary. 

However, it reminds me of a poem I wrote in 2020, seemingly on the same idea, and also not original to me: Time Is Fat.