these brittle glimpses

I watch the sky go through its paces, from strips of gray to streaks of blue. I watch the day break over roof and tree, scars of light across the steeped fields of clouds and stars. The night fades away in bits and pieces. It breaks into headlights and birdsong and promises unresolved. Mostly, it just breaks.

The night sticks to the teeth of the senses, long after sleep devours. It lingers on the breath and figures in every flavor. These small shards, these brittle glimpses that reflect as they fade, they are the patchwork of the soul of this threadbare day. All the grays and all the glimmer. The dust and sweat and bite of the day is only seen clearly from the shadows that are left behind, the hunter's blind that serve the night.

Now dusk has left me, and the world is silent, an ache or a trap. Careless wings and silent feet seem to be there, just out of my sight-line. Something tender and true left in the remnants of the failure of day, something startling and real just out of earshot, waiting. I breath in the cold air, another rumor of another storm. Spring so blue and warm and distant. All of these pieces that never seem to fit. All of these moments, wide awake.