12 . . .
. . . lunations of the moon, those familiar faces smiling down at us
. . . titans, Olympians, and the trials of a man as god
. . . apostles in the stead of precedents, characters for new stories
. . . silent winter nights waiting for gifts, for magi, for epiphany
. . . jurors locked away, quarantined as they travel innocence and guilt, carrying society like bags of sand
. . . clock numerals nobody now cares to read, time better misplaced and meant forgotten
Keep calm. Carry on.
UPDATE (lunch, about noon-thirty): The robins are plentiful today. I watched them through the window this morning, while working. And watched them while I made my wife and I lunch. One robin is quite comical. He or she has it in for the mulch. One piece of mulch in particular. I can almost hear it; the words bursting forth from its rusty breast as it spews curses at the warped and twisted shave of cedar resting next to a daffodil: "Eat a bag of dicks, mulch" says the robin, shaking the woodchip with such a ferocity I fear the bird might snap its own neck.
Lest any reader think my imagining birds talk is the result of me going stir-crazy from self-quarantine, let me say this. Our daily routine has been mostly unchanged during self-isolation. We usually work from home. So, my inventing scenarios and imagining words for birds to shout at the mulch in my garden is honestly just another day for me. Doing such things brings me joy. It is sprite-song. My Danse Russe.
If you're stressed out, I hope you find something to alleviate your anxiety. A beat, a rhythm. Dance naked and grotesquely to it. Like William Carlos and I. Or do it differently. Regardless, may I suggest logging off social media platforms. Stop giving your psyche to ne'er-do-well personalities who feast on your essence.
If you need help, just reach out. I'll be here. At my window . . . staring at the birds in the backyard.
Update, 2:30pm(ish): News so good I had to share it immediately. I looked outside and found a mourning dove in the feeder. I hadn't seen one the last few days. Last week there were four hanging around. I saw only one a moment ago. Looking aptly named—melancholy, and so doing its attributive modifier a solid. It looked tired and held what appeared to be avian-sized version of a M16A1 with underslung Smoothbore grenade launcher. I presume the weapon shoots millet or milo and the launcher utilizes cracked corn or sunflower seeds for more serious encounters. God, when will these bird wars cease? When?
by Geoffrey Allison || SIXSTRINGcpa