its usual blue

The twilight nestled in the leaf, it settled on the horizon line, crowding out the lonesome sun. A cold wind slipped in, between limb and bough, beneath the gutters and above the fences. Colors exchanged their distinction for an enduring vibrance, radiating their essential bliss along the narrow bandwidth of my vision. Scrub jay and sparrow scuttle in the detritus, alight in the flex and push of natural flight. Wings rise, the night falls. The mechanism is simplicity itself.

Whatever my mood, there are some things I can not witness without some measure of delight. Along with the radiant dusk and the earnest dawn, watching crows gather always strikes a spark. The evidence of the path of the sun as seen in the reaching of leaf and blossom. Any labor of ant or bee, the armor of a dragonfly glinting in that tide of sky, the criminal egress of some raccoon mob-- these settle some bet with-in my soul. The hush of a deep forest pierced by the call of some bird or beast I can not identify. Some old ways just ripple across my surface, others plunge into depths I did not know I had. Where ever I am, I am marked by these workings of light and life. Whatever I am, I am at last a witness to the wheels of beauty.

Night wrings the stars from its chains, it nuzzles the shine from these fits and starts of shadow. My heart beats its usual blue, roused by these sharp and brittle songs. I fumble through a few courses of plastic, dust and aluminum, several dozen secret arcana hinted at in each form and trace. The bones of artifice and the blood of the tide of life mingle on this dark shore. I follow the tracks in the dim hallowed world, a relic of a thousand lost lands and lucky breaks. This fierce bouquet of hunger and light, I watch all the halos as they writhe and radiate. A feeling so rare, a music so fine, it is loveliest because it will break. The anticipation, the memory, and the moment they enfold.