some memory hanging

It is like trying to tell which birds are flying above when they fly so high that they are barely visible. That resolution of focus, that strain against physical limits, that wonder that leaves one watching so closely these autumn skies. I feel my way forward only to find out I have been here before. I find my new path only to realize it was worn down by my footfalls. I slept away much of the day, that scramble of dreams and waking to check the hour my only legacy. Lingering in dreams that are the residue of my lack and my want. Lingering at the borders of the world that hasn't a use for you left.

I drift, dull amid all my petty diversion. I wander, wandering between the doors left open between these brittle little worlds. I feed the cats and take out the trash. I set up my clothes for tomorrow and the automatic coffee maker. There is gas in the car and stars in the sky. A warm unseasonal wind blows, as it has all day. Would that I had wings to spread. Would that I had somewhere to go.

I watched the west yesterday, saw the thousands of swarming insects in glittering flight. Clouds of motion paring the edges off of every direction, biters and blood suckers and butterflies on their fleeting last flights. Trees lit from behind and children playing soccer. A sky such a bright and lively shade of blue that it seemed to have come from some unmoored summer. The weather all I have left to speak of with the churning of these days. The color of some memory hanging in the sky.