The sun dissolves in a series of quick cuts-- one moment so bright I had to guard my eyes, the next the horizon lit in gaudy abandon, the next the thick persuasion of twilight giving way to a star spattered night. Time for strays and swarms, air thick with mosquitoes and that shimmer of translucent wings. Time for the slow roll and the satellites. Time for the clock to run down, shadows lapping at every border.
The moon is stuck in limbs and eaves, melting into its latest angle. Music comes in lilting whispers and thumping declarations, served in patches and clots. My hands are idle, itching with stillness. There isn't a song in my head or a thought as to what might happen next. There is a silence that is mistaken for peace, a quiet that precedes the most vicious of dog bites and the most brutal of endings. When nature holds its breath, this means something heavy is in the works. Nothing so striking can be said of this empty I am spilling. The less said, the better.
The greener seasons begin to unfurl and unspool, throwing leaf and bloom like a brawler's fists. More birds than bees, more sizzle than steak: just a warming trend and clouds of pollen to fill the days. Sunscreen and insect repellent, yard work and street crime abound. Mostly I am waiting, waiting for midnight, waiting for that blue mood, waiting for a message or a sign. Another month banished to the realm of words and memories. Another year soon added to the total, waiting around for those sinful wages to be paid in full.
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