The air is screaming, “Hawk! Hawk! Hawk!”
Hay bales settle into the shorn field.
I’ve been lost in a world of tiny mushrooms and painted lady butterflies.
Stained glass insect. Little windows in the air.
I want words to be smaller. I want to see the sky.
There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun. — Thomas Merton
The sun, obscured by the moon, took on the shape of a moon. A confetti of moon-suns fell at my feet.
I will remember what I heard more than what I saw: hundreds of cicadas flexing their tymbals in the false-dark day.
And the one dying at my feet as we entered near totality.
I will remember silent streets and still air, charcoaled sky, the amber of streetlights.
I will remember any or all of this. Or none of it.
That old question surfaced: What matters?
I still don’t know. But here I am, with eyes.
how you can look back / on a life & see only salt there — Sam Sax
Who am I without the barn swallows?