The white flecks in the blue of the sky's eyes mirror this restless gaze, watchful and wanting in the new measure of things. The fields and lots are crowded by these residual ghosts, candy wrappers and paper bones hidden by the mist. As if the feathered fog was a flag planted, the wispy battle standard laying claim to the season. As if everything relied on the ballast of clouds, our weights and tethers holding us fast to this world.
And so rise the crows and the surprise of a flock of ibises, dangling strange from the odd-colored dawn. And so glitters the gutters clotted with glass and plastic, lost candy and the usual host of needle and leaf. The dogs bark and a few stray cars idle, awaiting some sort of Sunday morning ritual, church or fishing, breakfast or the hair of the dog. A hint of frost, a clutch of vapor, all the open secrets that reveal the soul of a place. Something to witness, something to watch for. The world shaped by these leavings and this claiming.
No matter the hour, I arrive late to the party. No matter the chorus, I am always at a loss for words. Sieved light, the scoring of tinder still branches, the touch and stretch of the shadows of wings. I am up before nearly everyone, yet I go to sleep while drowsy beds stir and society lights its contentious obligations. Sensitive and oblivious, a dreamer bound to extinguish the cling of dreams, walking hand in hand with dusk and dawn. Another wanderer from a lost tribe, my identity born to the swathe of names and rituals that my blood ignores. Bound to the unwritten calendar, held by ways older than witnesses, knowing beauty is the only language of all this resonant steam.
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