The sky seems equal portions green leaf and tattered cloud, that and the hard-earned blue of a reluctant spring finally finding its way. A crow sounds out its riotous complaints, gathering flight with a wave of its wings. The rain that left still colors the flora, tamping down a winter’s worth of dust. Everything thing feels as if it was just set loose after an unwarranted detention, a little frenzy mingling with every freedom. Sure the dogs have gotten to barking, sure the kids are a plague upon their houses. All seasons are particular about their price. I keep my head down and take my portion. Maybe no-one will notice when it all goes bad.
The air is clotted with insects aloft upon the fitful winds, all gossamer glint and chitinous shine. The fields teem with this unfathomable host, this legion that has held the heavens since before the dinosaurs. This horde that will gleam and glow long past the sorting of our souls. It is all grass blade and flower bloom and the cracked hubris of so much cement down here. The crow has gone, and a coterie of less assertive passerines squawk and chirp in the fresh green trees. I try to ignore the wreckage of my yard, and all the works I long to never commit. It shouldn’t be too terribly hard: I’ve ignored the wreck I’ve become for years.
The breeze blows here and there. Clouds drift past the sight-lines of the sun. Traffic passes, insisting that there is somewhere it has to be. A humming bird pauses in mid-flight to take my measure, then zips away with a finality feeling almost like contempt. I am used to it. I consort with too many carnivores of varying sizes and speeds to be too popular with anybody who needs to worry about being eaten. The scrub jays and mocking birds in the neighborhood can barely conceal their disgust. Thoughts loll and drowse, carried away by each particular tide. Words perch nearby just to flee when I have nearly caught them. They rise into those swathes of green and white and blue, leaving me tasting nothing but my tongue.