Nothing is missed. The dove cries softly on the line, the rain falls in gentle mists in drifting sheets, the crow calls from the heights of some towering evergreen. The streets clot and empty. The clouds glide and shift the meaning of all those puzzle pieces of the sky. We box up our lives, put away our feelings. Our shelves and closets clutter with our reckoning.
I woke slow, drowsing in an ache of fundaments, joint and bone and that dim spark of being all lashed to some fading pain. I woke dull and unclear to want or direction. I read some sifting of facts, stare at someone's artifact of planned fancy, trifle with conundrums meant for solution. I find a few chores, I walk the dog, I watch the weather wonder at its resolution. Everything has its reasons.
The rain scarcely touched me. The darkening streets look all but dry. Dusk wanders in, shaking the stones from its boots. Night only falls to prove a point. Time only touches to leave a mark. It all unravels, the music, the magic, the mystery that awaits. It all unspools as we declaim and fumble. As we curse and wish. Our hearts stuffed in dark and dusty boxes, saved for another day.
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