These early wings, so dark and swift, seem leavened with a sweetness. A gentleness bordering on the shy despite such speed and skill. It is that observers error, to assign the pleasures of seeing and the humor of the mind to the subject seen. That capable mistake that we use again and again to paint our world. Still the swallows spire and dip, looping and darting in the liberal wind. That moment that Hamlet knew would be, and so let be.
How straight these broken roads and sidewalks, even considering this bend of thought. Weeds and dust, greens and golds. The sun blinding in the windows, the weight so laborious to hold. These little strolls tell our fortunes, the stubbed toe certainties that we earthbound abide. Drowsy or sharp as blades, lively or slow as stones, we step into our stories. Every day, it is life of the stage.
These flocks flit and feed, the abundance offered again alludes. Sprinkler showers and curbside breakfasts, songs biding their time upon the power lines, songs written anew and cycled again and again. Tires hiss and engines rumble. Whether we sprint or stroll, it is always the show. Whether our thoughts are captured or alight towards the sky, it is now that we are leaving. These studied postures, these hurried breaths. Our thanks are rendered, the show goes on.
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