Eleanor Rigby

You arrive still a list of broken things, dead pets and broke notions, those dismal displays of faith. Your pockets are empty, save a knife and fire. Those old skill sets still a dull murmur in your bones. All the roads as yet unchosen. The sun low every morning, midnight given to the bust belly moon. You weren't asked to be here, but you show up with your wings and your medicine bag. No-one asked, but you shoulder your way on in.

Six geese turn half a wheel above a field, winging straight through a roil of swallows feeding in the morning light. They honked along some other seam, flying fast and low. The swallows rise and fall, seemingly pursuing glints and flashes in the bright sunrise. It's no big secret. There's something screwy going on. History's best lessons always start with something screwy.

It's not like you kept the old ways, more like the two of you caught up a little somewhere on the road. The complaints of age and the retorts of ache are there in every stay and stride. Footprints on the beach, paths marked in the sand. Always a little further from the fire, always a little farther down the shore. Time huddled up and gave you the play. You always feel like you forgot a reason, finding another day. You always feel like you're out to sea, wrestling down another crowd.