A form of love
Birdsong is a counterpoint to the nasal whine of weedwhackers somewhere to the east . The oboe tones of wood doves a slow drone beneath the skitter of lightly brushed cymbals that sparrows make in their excited chat about the latest worm. The blackbirds, well, they caw. A raucous blare of sound that adds a discord to the mix and makes it textured.Hot peppermint fights with the raw reek of feral cats, an arrogance on my back porch that will give way to bleach, and I rush to squeeze a lemon in the pan I used to simmer grouper for those same feline foggers. My own scent this morning is warm, just slightly spicy, none of the curious scents of cleansing and redemption that the fast gifted me with, and the morning itself smells damp and cool.
There is the hazy feel of water to the air, slow moving as it tastes my skin, slides a point of light across my shoulder, moving clouds apart to drench the world in colour as light comes and the morningsong moves from intermittent solos to a chorus, magic harmonies in a waterfall of notes that all alone would grate upon the ear.
I feel light, fragile translucent creature that lets the world pass through, catching fragments of dreams in the links between the spaces open so wide I find it insupportable...and yet support it easily because I do not lose myself in this eerie dissolution, I am always at the centre, pinpoint or boulder, sometimes mountain depending on the needs of the moment.
Strange fey time this morning, with knowing close behind my eyes, mouth full of words that have the answer while fingers stumble in their increasing numbness to paint a canvas that cannot be painted, cannot be seen, a symphony that sings in silence yet resonates through out existence. The aching knowledge that I do know and have forsaken waiting for me to let go and embrace lifesong.