Ouroboros

For a time we lived inside a circle formed by a drop of rain on the surface of a puddle. It was July. It was warm inside the circle because it was small & ours. The rain was light & made other circles; none of the others belonged to us. A circle is the oldest symbol in the world. A circle is a wheel endlessly turning. The walls of our circle rose, expanded & fell in an instant. The time we spent there was nothing. It was infinite. We routinely travelled the perimeter, never far from the center. Many ancient religions practiced circumambulation, walking a ring around a sacred place or thing. Circular breathing is a common technique for musicians of wind instruments, a way to keep steady tone while maintaining the in & out of breath. In our circle, we moved around one another while also moving ahead. It’s difficult to explain. I can’t tell you where either of us begin. I only know endings because they feel like beginnings & beginnings because they signal an end. This is how circles work. Love makes a circle. Maybe that goes without saying. Maybe I need to say it again.