A bruise bright sky and the sound of shovel work scrape at the skin of the morning. The house stray lays in the tall grass, ready to pounce on the finches and sparrows that feed in the street. Unknown flocks dot the distant horizon, spattering the tree-line, moving to a music everything seems to hear. The sky seeps through branch and leaf, eking yellows from the lighter greens. The foliage is a-fire, spring running at a frolic from root to stratosphere. A blinding rampage trampling the heights of vision.
Now there is dirt beneath my finger nails and spider webs at my throat. Breaded with fine earth and seasoned with sand I am ready for the fire, should my text tinged critics prove right. Or at least some further baking of that more impartial counsel the sun. Life is a mystery, yet everyone has an answer. I will dig one hole to fill another and let them fight it out in prayer and cursing. I will set another bed where no-one will sleep.
This long last year has cost too much already. Too many wounds, too many graves, too many infected with the certitude of ignorance and the fury of confusion. It is only nine in the morning and I feel I am up too late. Everything has long since started, more than a few things are over. Bold strangers try to tell me the story of the universe and of all the dangers to my soul. I offer to tell them something about Spiderman, but they quickly lose interest. I offer them what blessings I can and show them to the street. They walk off in sad certainty, and I linger here where the earth and the unknown mingle. Sun and soil and trillions of varied appetites, the world lit and burning bright.
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