drafting

The day is bright and wild with bluster, a turkey vulture ascends a gust in that Christ on the cross affect, wings in a wide open embrace as it rises. The vulture slips and turns, surfing upon the rush towards balance, the rollick and the effortless glide. The sky is always an act of faith, the sky is a science sliding by. Something to look at once the sights grow sparse, somewhere to set the eyes that isn’t here. Life lingers and life leaves, our stories eventually turning for the worse. The least we can do is have something to see when we look away.

So go the tousled clouds and the goodbye blues, the stir and rush of the atmosphere as the sky keeps singing, the spatter of shadows and the long last drag of the sun. The winter wheat gone to seed swaying in the unkempt yard, the steady roll of a pedestrian across the windswept street, transfixed by his screen and his stride. The green tide of treetops and leaf hungry for sunshine constantly wave and whisper, the ever present shush of their susurrations a feral tongue of restless elements and the spirit before the word. The ever present evidence of our irrelevance testifying to our every sense. 

It is the tenure of this senescence, the return unto dust. The mind makes alibis weighing in on the indignities while the body knows the lowdown. The cheap talk comes too dear for the heart, the witness settled uneasy in the husk. What of the wind while the bones warn of the impending end, what of the night while the flesh frays and flecks, these assertions of agency and alarm that hold no charms against the inevitable tide. Moving through and moved through, the one shared breath at the pinnacle of the precipice, the self both steam and sediment. All at once, a hummingbird appears, hovering within arm’s reach. Centered for seconds within a tumbling roil of gnats, it feeds. The no one home in the head or the heart rides the sight, drafting behind the tiny blur of wings and will as it bullets off into the rising night.