There is a song I am always singing, a song without music or words. It is the song of rain falling on green leafs, the song of diesel engines left in idle. It is the color of water and the shade of pavement sluiced with showers. It rises in light moments, sinks like a fugue in the dour outbursts and bitter mood swings. It is the sound of blood, the sound of breathing. It is the spark and the smoke, and all of the burning in between.
My breath is always moving in the same direction as fire, the world either fuel or ash. These bridges and crushed cigarettes, evidence that there is always something waiting to burn. These days of addled clouds and brief showers, the mirror grays and smoke grays and flesh grays that abound. The old movie feel of the day slowly devoured by dusk, shadows and livid sparks. Inhalation and exaltation, the fluidity of the form left to leaving.
I sing this song though my teeth are cracked and my bones are aching. I sing through the silt in my throat and the blood in my mouth. The lilt of this silence, the tone of this enduring hush presses air tight against the mute windows and distant skies. Music in the stillness, a song for every step. The chorus of crows, the snapped paper sounds of doves taking suddenly to wing, the plastic shredding sound of a pigeon lifting off. The sway of green limbs, the metronome of generous hips. The song is there, and I am stuck with all this singing. Sworn to this music though I do not know a note and can not play a lick.