the externals

The afternoon bends warm despite the wind, scintillating shadows and sunshine in the pines. A House sparrow does his dance about the branches, hopping around his intended, shaking his tail feathers and fanning out his wings. I’d call it a courtship display, but I leave the terminology to the more expert observers. I don’t know what the birds are thinking, or the thoughts of any other people when it comes down to it. Every other entity a spark of mystery. Every being a share of the dark. You miss someone, mostly not knowing what you’re missing.

For fifty four long years I’ve walked among you. I have learned from trick tongues and false prophets while I learned to wear your words. I have struggled with your etiquettes, and made not stepping on toes a matter of practice. Still not a spark or clue. The world has long since had no use for me. I gave up on motive, and stick to the motions. And so I go on missing. I just go on.

A Bird of Paradise bloom sways in the breeze, brightly a bee visits. The sun spills in thick dollops, glistening and streaming upon every skin. A birdseed sunflower stirs above the weeds and winter grass, yellow in the golden beams, as bright as the name it bears. Through these honeyed days, these blessed respites, left all shirts and skins. The chasm between worn and born, the measure of the externals all flights and falls. I know less of why than bird or flower. I stay here still and watch you as you soar.