What is necessary?

To simplify. Wake up in the morning and look out on waving meadow grasses and early sun on a mountain peak. Make tea. Walk to the stream to splash face and filter water for the day’s drinking. Greet the plants by name: monkshood, paintbrush, cow parsnip. Notice the tiger lilies fading, and the bumblebees’ intent focus as they nose among the flowers.

Hike in the deep forest alive and awake to the ratchet calls of winter wrens. Fledglings are out of the nest and curious. Unafraid as a human lumbers along, they perch near the trail cocking their heads. They are perfect little brown birds except their beaks have not outgrown the wide baby bird gape. The parent is nearby, twitching with anxiety. All day long there is only this: the arc of the sun in motion, a few clouds on an eastbound track, wind animating conifer branches above. Ravens gronk. The body works–hiking, sawing, chopping, crawling, pulling, throwing, pushing. The body rests–sitting. Then the body heads back to camp. Boots off. More water for drinking. Food. Laughter. The mosquitoes don’t seem necessary but they are there anyway. A few chores before bed. Light drains away to the northwest, turning the sky silver. The moon rises.

What is necessary?

What is inevitable?