It’s no great effort. It’s no effort at all.
It is letting other forces drift on, glide through if need be.
It is a sense of whisper movements, not sticking, as our gentle core,
more or less condensed, more or less whole,
remains in its own rhythmic movement,
the movement of life itself.
Melodies may pass near, around or in concert,
even altering our flow, but we always return.
We are made of our own song.