rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


This afternoon, as I watered plants in the back yard where the scent of jasmine sweetened the bee-buzzed air, and the breeze-flicked poppies nodded fat, golden heads, eastward I glimpsed birds circling the distant field I used to visit when I still had time for afternoon walks. This evening, I notice that the gap in the trees reveals only empty sky above the field. I suspect that the birds have, by now, plucked the leaden eyes from the corpse of my muse.

At hand, the evening crows caw and the crickets begin chirping. The western sky is bright, and flecks of golden light linger amid the lower branches of the ponderosas, while their silhouetted tops display the tight clumps of new needles which will soon spread open. The dense shade east of the mulberry tree is already more night than day. My eye is drawn more there than to the patches of bright sky. I'm eager for darkness to engulf the street's houses. I want the moon's company, and I want the town's mechanized voice to be silenced. There's a muse to be mourned.

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