The season is brown and the trees naked. A few flies emerge from the entrapment of winter. I watch and wait for the flight of the winged, the songs of their cycles humming amidst the encroachment of summer. Life emerging yet already existing. Perfection amidst the blandness. All in its place and me, too, rightfully, yet the odd man out. Part of it all, yet in no way obvious or certain. Will and free thought making things distinctly less instinctual, yet increasingly more unproductive and benign.
No comments:
Post a Comment