rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Ordinary Night

A warm north breeze bringing the forest's scent makes the moonlit pines whisper, a sound as soft as the sound of the cicadas is abrasive. Midway between them is the chirping of the crickets, the nightly rhythm of summer. As the full moon rises, the houses glow and the lawns shimmer. Small night creatures rustle the shrubs, and moths flutter at lit windows, striking the glass, unable to enter the bright aura or the dimly reflected world.

As glass separates rooms and the world, hanging illusions of each, I hang a window of words to describe the scene, and end up beating my wings against these mere reflections. Being the window would be the thing, but I'm only inside or out. The fortunate moths have no idea that they have no idea. I have the idea and nothing else but reflections. The shared voice of breeze and trees says things I can't. How can I write on air?

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