The roots have tasted rain and the dirt has gone green with opportunity, a shift of ambience and atmosphere, a taste of tongues yet to come. We wade right in, thinking after speech, the shuffle and scrape of matter paid forward in increments. The world is a phrase that’s always turning, from fumble to fiddle and from want to wit. The riddle of the rising tide in time with breath and heartbeat, another cautious countdown, another custom to declare. The skies go gray again, the afternoon a known unknown as the wind plants a flag to tatter.
Black clouds play backdrop to the fronts of sun splashed homes, crow call and crow shadows as they pass into text and inference, the window only as useful as the eyes and the frame. The work of words so like the work of wings that we rely on both to remain aloft, held by the tension between art and action, held in the spell of the evidence as time erases flights of fancy and otherwise. We speak in the tentative style of the temporary, feeling our way towards the explanations for our existence. Another shaky presence posited on oratory and silhouette, another is you is or is you ain’t without a stall in sight.
You stand too still and the weather goes on without you. You stand too still and the stars streak on by. The years fly by in a blur of dreams and seasons, hemlines and lapel widths and the deep dive into fascism. The gusts and winnows of spent breath stippled into symbol, another sweep of shadow, the way the boundaries gibber into static and placeholders. The rain of days pressed into this stubborn clay, mud and oxidation and the host of habit. Something of the root, something of the crow, something lost both now and long ago.
