I’d like to write profoundly as such that I read. It draws on the lonesome parts of life, the silence before sleep or between bites of a meal. To capture the long pause I must take before closing a book entirely and returning to life, and for a split moment wonder if it has all been wrong and perhaps it is time to wade off. As the long and thin woman described in ink, so beautiful that she gives ill-tailored clothing a place, I can think of her though I cannot see her, no face comes to mind. Or the color white written as summer in winter – it is the sheer brightness I cannot imagine. All this to say, there is little to add.
I eat in the yard silently, rarely. Upwards in the sky I watch a single sea bird pass, far off, its wings flying heavy. It cruises high over the gold cross atop the church, then below soft, vanishing pink clouds. He has gone from the sole moving spot in the evening sky to a yearning fowl making haste as the day draws in. Within each flap I see his angst, an undying urge not to settle here or there
You are far from home, sea bird. This is all I can think of.
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