The water moves slowly, seeping into the earth, finding the table, leveling off. It condenses on tree limbs, pools in the pottery, drips freely from leaf and eaves. Rain comes and goes, leaving its muddy markers. Foot prints and drowned worms. A sky that cannot help but change its face.
So it is black coffee blues and time on my hands. Feeding strays and nudging shoulders with ragged shelter. Watching how little my works matter, as the usual suspects trample everything without a shade of concern or reflection. Watching how easy the mind drifts towards murder, moving from idle to apocalypse in the batting of an eye. Another cloud burst runs scattershot over the streets and houses. A spattering fusillade needling pockets and explosions out of sheets of falling rain. Ripples reaching out towards other ripples, pavement washed clean again and again.
Vapor trails and accosted exhaust, breath and jets and impromptu poolings spreading water throughout the system. Dusk, aimless and furtive in its mission to conceal. Passing time like any measured fire, I burn slowly. Another conspiracy of myriad biologies, plant and animal and in between, caught in the headlights of the claim-making self. Creation myths and stories of boot-strap individuals and skies riddled with angry thunderers and gracious placaters. Call me a criminal then grant me confession. Amnesty and amnesia mingling, all the ways made up to control the payback they have earned ten-thousand times over. Every system just apologia for giving away what can never be yours, friendly-fire and unconditional surrender to the one with the most murder handy. Blessings for the flood or the drought, the water always working for its own.
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