feather

I can hardly keep an eye upon the bright horizon. I can hardly look to see at all. Some days blunt, some days dwindling, some days left staring into the empty air. I gather the pieces I missed at the last sweeping. I make a little puzzle before throwing everything away.

The days first crows crowed in tandem, some turf war fought out atop a phone pole. I skirted the schoolgrounds, my mind made of strays. Last nights revels of cardboard and black powder having long died out, now only leaving the lost pets out scrambling, finding their way on unfamiliar streets. The dull sound of footfalls making this dull set inclusive and complete. A rhyme comes to me, and I am almost singing. The ache of the pavement, the thud of this dawn.

Every reaching still feels like evasion. Every grasp I gather somehow ends up lost. The sound of a voice, or the clatter of dishes. The longing to talk out something that isn't really there. The day turns blue and the wind makes its paces. I stare in some direction, and then I look away.