It is cold, but not as cold as the night before. I spill smoke and steam into the gray haze, sifting breath and pine needles, staring hard away from the light. Street lights and traffic noises creeping up beside the house. The cat above, and the dogs run riot. The coffee cools quickly, every bit as bitter as the ruins of a dream. Just as much the feeling as the fact.
It is always a tangle, searching for the source. Always either knot or almost knot. Either the sparrow of providence or the same in waiting. The clutch of atomic bonds and that vast abyss of probability meandering in the immeasurable in between. The nature of language always veering harder towards the almost, meaning needing to be more the near miss than the sense itself. The snake chases its tail, the dragon guards the gate. The myth lingers in every moment. The myth is always just ahead of the path.
I wait on the weather. I watch for sign or rain. The stars obscure the depth of distance. The lights conceal our limits, the tethers and markers that allow us to know our worth. Our broad conspiracies no more profound than the business of any nest, hive, or anthill. This tiny corner of creation so much greater than we can comprehend, boundless detail hiding endless devils. I witness what I can, missing everything the most.