I bow to the lark and its tiny lifted silhouette, fluttering before infinity.
I promise myself to the mountain and to the foundation from which my future comes.
I make my vow to the stream flowing beneath, and to the water, falling toward all thirst,
and I pledge myself to the sea to which it goes and to the mercy of my disappearance.
And though I may be left alone or abandoned by the unyielding present or orphaned in some far unspoken place,
I will speak with a voice of loyalty and faith to the far shore where everything turns to arrival,
if only in the sound of falling waves,
and I will listen with sincere and attentive eyes and ears for a final invitation,
so that I can be that note half-heard in the flying lark song,
or that tint on a far mountain brushed with the subtle grey of dawn,
even a river gone by still looking as if it hasn't,
or an ocean heard only as the sound of waves falling and falling,
and falling, my eyes closing with them into some undeserved nothing,
even as they give up their strength on the sand.
~ David Whyte (Pilgrim)