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By j. knipp Date: 2006 Dec 24 Comment on this Work [[2006.12.24.07.26.14412]] |
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On the balcony the plaza spreads out before him. A haze, fat and lazy, languishes on the ground, while sodium arc lights dissolve their glow through it. So now the palm trees of sunny days hunch over like the splayed armed denizens of foggy nights. Something about the moisture on the air that lends a sense of encasement. Perhaps hinting that outside this fog there waits nothing. It is so that when a song bird cuts off dawn with its lone trill, he is surprised. It is so odd in this fog, all the colors feel muted, alien. He is transported. This is not the plaza he knew, No. Perhaps he is in Moroco, or Nepal some place vaguely exoctic. Some place he does not know outside of rhetoric. The bird looses another unexpected volley. Perhaps sounding out for a partner, but with the sun still crouched under the horizion, none are forthcoming. The man sits at the balcony, entranced, by this muted, encased world he has found. The Yuengling is still cold in his hand, but forgotten. He is considering the bird. A bird that seems confused or rebellious to be up so late. Though he isn’t tired either. The moon is collapsing in exhaustion but he isn’t tired. He is fueled by childish things. All childish things, he thinks, emnate form the heart. It is in this way that the heart is foremost while a child, the prime mover,while the mind bides its time. Still, now, his mind pointedly tells him the bird is likely ill. And his mind reminds him he is tired. Though he isn’t listening. He is regressing, his heart is driving. And on his way, he thinks of her. And her,and her, and each her that has kept a little bit of him— deposits at roadside diners, a forgotten wallet here and a ball cap there. So many pieces in so many hands. The bird trys again, no success. The sun is mounting its revival. The fog flees now (he thinks) or maybe the spell it cast under the blanket of night is wasting away under the inklings of first light. Light in the east. He cheers the bird, though only with the quiet voice in his heart. |