It’s the sound of ice cream trucks amid the birdsong and traffic. It’s the glittering of insect wings as the sun tangles with the power lines as it sets. The cigar smoke swirls and rises, dancing on the rush of wind. The cigar smolders between index and middle fingertip, the bite of fire, the persistent ember. The sun blinds in rays and regions, a radiant remainder of the day’s ruthless reach and grasp. I sit through the pitch though I won’t buy it. I watch the whole production, though I’m hep to the grift and rolling with the spoilers. The sun swings down, never losing a step. Sundown again, though I’ve seen it a thousand times. Another day fresh into the past.

The sun gets in your eyes, the smoke gets in your eyes— between you and me, I think eyes are generally pretty vulnerable to the elements. Sun, smoke, stick, stone— whatever it is, it isn’t doing the eyeball any favors getting in there. I see what I see, considering local conditions and the angle of the light. The homeward crows, the last guard of sparrows lined up on top of the fence, the way the branches sway their soft goodbyes as the sun westers away. The light in its alignment, the charge resonates into each flesh and surface, dusk not the blossom but the blooming. These ingrained rituals and grand entanglements where the mind resides.

I’ve always been out in the weeds. I’m usually wandering around in the dark. I’m here for the first squirrel, there when the rats are on the clock. The slide east, the spill west, the ringing between stone and star, the singing from root to crown. There’s always another aspect unfolding, the children of the season, the ancients bereft of even bone. The story has to have it out with you, no matter whose story it is. Laughter beyond the fences, the distant peal of sirens as the last light leaves. The moon places its name upon me, rising unseen, a steady hand upon my shoulder. The drag of the archetype up my spine, marked in the muddle, a light left on in the careless wastes. Another prayer with nowhere left to go.