There is the song of the gull, gliding alone in that swathe of gray. There is the sprawl of mud and weeds, stones and the first glimmerings of spring. There is that dissolution, smoke and steam and the upended sky. There is the rain, there is the chill, there are wings unfolding above. The bonds of the earth endure in these tensions without respite.
It is the limitation of memory, that skinned mirror depth, that unflattering clarity. You move as if submerged or consume, lithe and unrelenting. You stretch and curl and reach for some distant with-in. It is that feeling where these wanderings dance and glide, the picture in the puddle, black feathers and raw throats. This song that always is lost in the cloying details of the day.
The life allowed is always the thousands denied, this changes of season and costume, these mistaken translations and shorter forms. My fingers slow, chilled by weather and colored with smoke. The least touch both a loss and a burning, the confession of so many empty crimes. I wake each day without the burden of the risen sun. I wake each day, the same skimmed notions and earnest growls. I am again a little further down the mountain, a little farther up the road. I scatter my ashes while the winter takes its portion, while life burns so brightly away.