sinking

The stones are still out in the yard, comfortable in the dark, satisfied with the night. All the barking dogs, all the devil's watch enmity eludes them, quiet for all their burdens. Settled and in place. Unmoved by any calm or commotion. Their level found, and resolutely held. For my part, I am still sinking.

The wind has its say, and the trees are whispering to the tune of too typical chimes. Birds are already singing their ubiquitous cycles, dawn still a handful of long hours off. I sit in the dark cool air, stinking up the calm with my lit cigar and various resentments. Smoke tethers itself to the whim of the wind's speechifying, coiling and clouding, rising towards the stars and falling at my feet. In the distance the unfurled calamity of a cat fight in full swing sounds, all spit and scream and fraction. I watch the sway and sling of the tree above me. I watch the cloud part, revealing cautious stars.

There are all the usual tatters. All the skulking corners, all the vicious truths. I am a plume in the night. I am a rumor, a scuff-mark on some path full of mysteries and oaths. Aching with the changes in the weather, wounded by the sameness of my heart. Waiting for a hint of rain or some bright idea. Waiting for the names to come back to me, now that the stars are out. Some constellation to warn away. Some myth to savor as I sink.