Amanda and I on the way to big cities. Window wipers excited with leaves. Maybe a hawk scoping field. Llamas in a yard with a boat and apple tree.
Albany.
Amanda and the sun: there’s something certain to the day and its light and clouds that allows for her eyes to intake without tint. Which is nice, to be exposed. To feel less aggressed.
The Linger Longer.
The King Kone.
The Sprayfoam eagle!
A four-formation of flight.
Enchanted Forest!
Pruseco in the console to find once forgotten, like a twenty or five or one dollar bill in the gutter, then a pocket.
More birds, ducks, looking in their nearness inelegant but from far away streamlined, perfect, what all flying objects hope to be.
I forget traffic exists. The hugeness of a roadway, an incessance of cars, as in the cars won’t disappear, never a blank spot with only us and the asphalt and weather. Always other colors, always other windshields, all these other destinations we can only imagine and never imagine enough – never plain enough, exciting enough, thick enough or thin – it’s impossible to wholly capture the desire or dread or happiness or sadness that surrounds. We’ll arrive and return in a day, less than a day, twelve hours, less than twelve hours. Others will be quicker and others much, much slower.
A press of stories printing the vineyard, then a person’s wedding, a party, an anniversary, an opening, a reading, a thought. Someone in a necklace, someone barefoot, a quail bevy, the train. Buttons, cuffs, laces. The swimming hole, salamanders, crayfish. A bbq with corn in singed husks and blistering brats. A cartwheel, a handstand, a song.
0 comments:
Post a Comment