ritual

The yard is littered with the victims of the wind-- leaf and limb, the scattered debris of that last unyielding breath, a fledging dead and mauled past recognition. Always the danger of flying too soon, the threat of falling too far to contend with, each ragged night, each shining day. The sound of lawn mower engines and youthful braggadocio, the relentless affections of our distant star, heat and rhythm and ribbons of steam to litter the sky. I am itching with impulse, laden with awful truths and pitiful labors. Even the peripheral life is busy with daily burdens it would seem.

This lately loosed sun has its admirers-- they sing and clutter the world with their nattering swarms. Safe from the weight of shadow, from the lingering of the uncertain, and those shambling fears that settle in the base of the imagination, they march in multitudes. Never truly at work or at play, they flay their flesh and choke the skies, every twitching whim a command of the highest order. Mingling with them forces me towards hurtful etiquette and the theater of familiarity. When the weather is harsh, their glad tidings stay happily indoors. When the weather warms, their infections fester and bloom.

Now the nights will roil with clamor and scandal, errant gun shots and foolish tells. I am forced to be witnessed, a simple ritual raising the animal stirrings, whispers of dead ancestors to twist and churn in careless skulls. Manifesting sudden flesh as an answer to all the steaming piss and fearful yelps. The old ways wind through my blood and bones, that sharp sliver of the moon, those haunted distant stars. Even third wheels and fifth businesses have duties bound in the telling and the being. Through the longer darker nights I must wander. Every absence has its price.