only this

The sun settles into the flesh, reflection and radiation binding in this being, hedging yet another of life's many bets. Complexity from simplicity, somehow the unfounded stories still need their tellings. From the blue wolf to the green turtle, from a sun murdered each day to a chariot always traveling west, the magic lives on in leaf and breath. Egrets flying overhead at dusk, bound for whatever marsh awaits them. I adjust my hat and remove my sunglasses, still warmed by the touch of that ancient and shifting god. Myth or fable or self-delusion, I take my blessings where I can.

The dusk settles over the skin, hush and riot in crowd and storm, the unleashed anticipation of reckless boys and the pure weaponized will of moth and mosquito. I smell of smoke and sweat and sunscreen, that vague hint of coconut and industrial conspiracy. Victorious in completing next to nothing, I move on to the work of this fresh night. Coffee beans to grind and bets to settle. That awful ache that is close to home, the inevitable blackening of any sustained blue. A few words to tend to the wasting of the day. A few words to lend themselves to waste.

The moon has its methods, its mysteries and spells. All those spring laden longings, all these bared shoulders and sun-slaked limbs setting into their midnight selves. The sound of music everywhere, the lingering work of the bees shining in the apple blossoms swaying in the breeze. I watch the sky loiter and bolt, clouds giving way to constellations. This lonesome feel giving way to something gentle and lethal and true. Only this world left, shedding days as it unfolds, common and astounding.