bones pinned to the cosmos

Shifty, the morning. We’ve fucked with time again, just as the day is shrinking, and I’m off kilter. Looked up in the morning sky in time to see a wide wave of small birds unroll, moving crosswise to the lowest clouds, which were moving faster than the higher clouds, which revealed some pale sky. Hard not to read signs and portents in all this change. But that’s just the human need to control things, right? Our need to know stuff ahead of time, what’s coming. We’re an anxious species. Jumpy as the rabbit who sometimes shows up in the backyard. Munch munch, then freeze, then leap off into the underbrush, or the squirrel, fervid, burying nuts in the flowerbox. Or is that just me? Who would know the future? Who would tattle? The little birds disappear into the distance. A breeze picks up and the brown smell of downed leaves and wet wood wanders past. If I and everything around me is the inevitable outcome of biological and physical functions, what could the future be but some kind of…

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