Of the Moment

By John Grey

Yes, I can sit under a tree
and read Kant
and blow off theory
when a scarlet tanager flies by,
return to it
as mosquitoes buzz up
from the swamp,
with thirst for blood
their one nod to empiricism,
and I can turn the page
as triumphantly as swat,
and even savor the point
when a few drops of rain
are passed from leaf to leaf
above me, until one,
weighed down with
nerve and gravity,
splatters between two words.
I balance one philosophy
on my knee, cater to another
with my palm, my tongue.
The world turns on both accounts.