When the mists rise
And things are clear to see
I’ll know what I want
Cicadas will sing it out
Mourning doves will spell it out in seed husks on the lawn
Fireflies will code it out in the dark
A wind will hold its breath and then whisper it:
What you need to do is —
And the wind runs out, the firefly dies after a night of ecstasy, the mourning dove is a moron, and the cicadas retreat into the ground, with a knowing look that says, “We’ll tell you in 17 years.”
Night is now here. Insect choirs trade eights. The house has sleepy eyes and wonders when I’m coming back in.
I’m never coming back in.
I’ll wait until I make up my mind like a hit by a lightning bolt. The birds and bugs scatter at the crash of it, throwing themselves up through the trees, dodging branches, twigs and leaves, and murmurating into sentences and phrases -
I don’t utter them. No one hears me, just reading strangers. Hello there! Are you somewhere between the ground and the air, too? Dying, and yet so so damn alive?