The day burns low, and there isn't a spell in sight. The cat is too busy, and I never trust the owl. The stage is always set though the scene is always changing. The gossamer of dusk and insect wings, the breath of cold metal and green grass. Every song lets loose at once, and the air is never settled. The sharp eyes of hidden curses may fly, the fates and furies might take up arms at this insolent dissolution, but I still work at it line by line. I might elude notice, but I am easy enough to find. The night has all its tricks yet to play. Those lingering distances, these crowded streets.
I never know until the blood is on me. I never know until the deal turns south. I never seem to have the time to stretch. Mostly it is the limits of the instruments rather than the lay of the land. Mostly it is bad driving and empty tanks. Whether it is waiting in the shadows, whether it is knocking on the door, I am lost until the reel begins. Agents and practitioners plot and scheme, they win the day. Creatures and diseases hunt and roam, they shake the night. I only have my bad ideas and worse headaches, my counsel the wind on the one side, the road on the other.
The magic happens, with or without. Some little startled spark to captivate the eye, some dream of heaven to canter with the heart. I catch a lilt beneath the wind, see a crow walking down the road. Then the moment moves and someone is choosing sides. The entanglement might begin with the identity, but the organism carries on. Ghost and blood, word and way. Silent paws, unseen wings. The whole spell-book thrown like a gauntlet, the street littered with cast aways. I keep my knife with-in its sheath, I put my prayers away.