Who knows what sounds the wind stirs in, who knows the next available rain? Who knows what the dogs are after over the solo with the earbuds in? One of the local squirrels on a tear or the stray I’ve only seen passing fast in silhouette, some remarkable witness, some elusive evidence? There’s no telling what we miss, watching the one thing and not another. The applause rises as the song stops short, the portion of past appreciations scribbled down in the cacophony of long gone ghosts. The wind stirs, all gray light and receding sky.
The day takes the gray on early, hosting the last forecast rain for the foreseeable. Skin beset by itch of mosquito bites, the soft husk of sky dripping a few drops, I follow the context clues. Hunched over this lit machine, tapping out trails of expired moments for strangers to taste and spit. Chasing steam with smoke, the aura of the bug cluttered porch light aglow in my peripheral sight, I watch the exchanges as they rate. Dog and cat, bird and squirrel, wind and rain and the existential drain of this slow motion gloaming. All the want, and the words to boot.
Some song plays back when the world I thought I lived in still included marriage and family, all the well worn wounds hit at once. The lost possibles that just disappear from view, one moment a fork in the road, the next the road you chose. The old camera with the aperture all wrong. The synopsis whittled from old shows and ghosts, the reasons that come scraping down the hall at night, someone plays a saw on that song you can almost hear. Just the words, and the bones you huddle your guts and gristle around. Just the words, and the dusk gone cold.
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