The Rites of Spring Swallowed by the AEther: 02 The Night Dies Every Mourning

recorded Sunday, October 23, 2022, 12:08 PM

from a journal entry written Sunday, June 24, 2018, 7:51 AM

A single dewdrop on the watermelon sprout, a tiny spider crawls over the mishappened leaf, exploring the cavity of folded foliage, drops down from silk web and crawls up again. Breath moves in him in the still morning. The lady two houses down smokes cigarettes and coughs harshly and the birds sing anyway: uninterrupted by the interruptions. The mimosa tree has bloomed, and the days are hot. Robin red breast hops across the yard, dog barks in distance, cloudy sky – little flower sprouts on the table, the night dies every morning. The coffee’s gotten cold and I can’t find a single vision, the strange sound of a distant plane, a lightning bug walking across the deck rail. The old place ringing in my ears, this place breathing in my chest and through the window you sleep. Cardinal, buzzard – the low hum of insects, powerlines, and cars on distant roads. The sun pulls out from a cloud and rains light so loud I whence bathing me yellow-white and the shadows of leaves. Patagonia (giant dragonflies and the smell of rotting vegetation).