The sky keeps all its secrets, from the glass black to the cornflower blue it only shows the part it gives away. The air lit with radiance and whispers, invisible ripples pulling everything together, wandering over skin and sea. The wind first sharp then soft, coming uncoiled, every breath a tether, every word a leash. Some sense of speech, some proof of life, this fitted mystery, this heart set loose like a hound to the hunt. Some distant shore at dusk or dawn, totems resting in silhouette, the seabirds already on the wing. Some shared remainder spoken aloud to yourself.
The bumblebee follows the sidewalk for a surprising stretch, heavy black and bright yellow casting a crisp blue shadow along the pavement. It finally veers away, following whatever path is set, brook or bloom, hunger or home. The walkway is left vacant, a few ragged weeds and candy wrappers, the diamond weave shadows of a chain-link fence. A ragged white rose hangs halfway over a fence, all sweet scent and sharp thorn, waiting to snag some passing pollinator. The blue of the sky almost breaks character, hanging about tree and roof.
The flowers mirror their measure in the spectrum, they spit color and fragrance aimed at insect, bird and bat. They follow the course of the wandering sun, silent as to their theories and their faith. Spread beneath all this shine and heat, they await some convenient wing, some dedicated creeping and crawling to propagate their signal. Everything resonates, awash in the wreck and hum of these cunning frequencies, lit from without and within. Somewhere someone reaches out. Somewhere someone finds you with a feeling like prayer leaving, like words caught rising on the wind.