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The reoccurring theme of animal sheen. Scratched black, old sap from new trees, birds and bees. Bruised honey and dead fleas. Another July without an alibi, more down the throat, more on the skin. Burned, candle lit, mosquito bit. All the oceans overflowing, northern lights still glowing like extinction. All the ways of going away and never coming back. Pebbled teeth, caught minnows, sparkled silver through streams. Cut bait, light rain. Sunday morning slapping softly against a long night’s shore. Chase down our own Alamo, bringing ourselves to our knees. Shiny toy guns, plastic swords we throw ourselves on. Not even cracking the ribs. Fear of apologies, anger at the suggestion. As if all fighting is noble. All the revenge is justified. Must we lose these illusions to choose a new solution? We sleep alone instead of closer to crying wolf. Now under time’s thumb we watch and wait becoming numb. Years pass and all the lakes are drying up, thirsty versions of ourselves cupping empty hands. Listening for dust storms. Remembering the edges of deserts we treaded carefully, mindful of each increasingly rare living thing. Notes tied to the trees, its own kind of poetry. Its own melody.
