Far pink ribbon linking treetop silhouettes, a slowly widening, prying of itself apart, whitening slightly, half the sky to the west—around the moon—in far pink, too, but looser, more diffuse. Today seems awful quick to blue.
Five minutes end and clouds turn into myth. They join ideas of just and fair imperial machines there. Noble executions. Innocence. Time before the phantasm of prisons, songs stinging their walls. Seasons. Their end.
Birds square up on a birdbath’s rim. I blink once and wings explode. A chipmunk sees my feet through glass. Seeks invisibility. I look away and cup my eyes and bet on its success. Eight past eight a.m.: no birdsong, and I worry for the truancy of bees with violet wings. Who among us most closely circle was, were, had been, once, untouched closets, not anymore, caked in dust. Whose raven words are given steel, will make it so.
Lovely