It’s incredibly tricky, this balancing act we failingly attempt as we plough the furrow. The wait clicks on, the wait clicks off, the weight settles and unsettles again as weathers shift and drag us restlessly on. We lunge in each new direction without heed or care, often tumbling down the jagged embankment, snapping the branches of chance as we slide, finally
“found away from my world,
feeling for foothold through a blank profound,
along with unborn people in strange lands.” *
There’s a dead bird in the backyard today. Actually just a gay pile of feathers lightly catching the tips of the breeze as it edges in off the water. There’s no heraldic husk and certainly all of the fires are out.
Must be a day to turn back over. Let sleep pamper me like a familiar, salty lover who always has a new delight with which to surprise her jaded lover.
Swim tenderly down and succumb.
* The quote’s from Browning though possibly a forgery.
