It begins, clinging like summer cotton, that breath of flesh and fever. The sun smeared across these small epiphanies of steel and pavement, the sky always going somewhere. The travel across these set pieces of speed and drama is that masque where the dance is always trailing off, lost in limb and thought. The empty tribute of life to these labors of vain abandon, the romance that is always smoldering in your eyes.
Dusk weighs in, stippled with stars. The flocks fly towards some distant roost, alight on graceful silhouette wings. The trees sway, their limbs all reach and spirit. The shadows engulf each empty space, touching every surface, holding all things close. Smoke spills and curls, proof of some grinding fire. Strangers wander past with the labored gait of ghosts.
It ends, fleeing like winter light, that breath of ice and absence. The stars spill along fence and rail, the sky trawling the sea and fields. All this wander, worn shoes and troubling stones, roads and homes and woods. The shambling of unseen beasts the only music evident in this wide open world. The promise of another day, the rhythm that is always sounding through your veins.