A drawn out, high-pitched wail, ringing in the morning. Metal on metal? A dog in great distress? It sounds first like one, then the other. Sight of garbage trucks up the street, rumble of bins, again the wail and this time a distinctly mechanical edge. Not a dog, then.
Heron in the morning, ungainly grace. The weight of him hangs heavy from cupped wings.
By the brook, bunched buds, and what purple! Violet the velvet of bishops’ robes, of blueberries smeared across a suntanned cheek. To flower? Soon. Come this way in a day or a week, to see.
From needing an answer now, at all costs, to following my own distant interests, I watched my wants turn about overnight.
Desire tied to unknowing. Assure me, and the kick fails.