The mockingbird all but said as much. I had something on my mind, and nothing much to say. The lawnmower next door buzzes and pings, drowning out the birdsong and ranchera music, clotting the air in a gauze of noise and spatter. It is hot even in the shade, the daylight traded for plodding matter. My mouth is laden with dust. If I spoke it would be in clouds and storms. If I spoke, it would be to no-one.
The sun shine endures, measured against the dirt and sky. The world seems all lit, each and every feature noted, favored with that hint of fire. The litter of dead leaf and pine needle cradles the stretch and mark of shade, a slow dull dazzle caught in the drift and drive of the day. Even common thought eludes me, stuck between litany and revery. Even ordinary time loses something, translated into flesh and song.
It is so subtle, it doesn’t seem like loss. It is so simple, it barely feels like sweat. The work of the world staggers and plummets, while silly fairy stories hold vigil against the edge. A native tongue choked with rust and concussion, the mind a series of aches and gaps amid the wandering weeds. This one longing too typical to mention, as these appetites are set out to sea upon chunks of ice and oil spills. The mockingbird always adept at singing someone else’s song, my life caught in the measure of moth wings. The distance between the lightbulb conflagration and the beckoning of the moon.