I adore this weather and the quiet, blanketed ambiance it provides my little town. Where Main Street becomes less a place of local, day-to-day dealings to transform into notions of personal exposition and mystery.
This is no small, out-of-the-way town, but an area populated just enough to be considered a city. I count my blessings for days like today, where God provides the opportunity to play make believe. Maybe invent my own little Spoon River Anthology.
One look out the window, one drop of cloud kiss to my skin, a single inhale of that wet air, and I'm ignoring that I'm headed straight or suburbia, and instead paint dusty secrets from yesteryear into my future. I can't help but wonder between the distance from Here to There whatever it is our gravestones might have to say.
Salt runs down my cheeks, sticks to my lips where I dare not lick it away. I never can tell how soon it might be before I get those emotions back. Already they're waving farewell, digging toes into the soil knowing full well what it's like to be overcome by treacherous sands.
Swingbox staccatos brought on by the weight of rough jazz weaves a dizzying waltz throughout my mind. Hardly any time has passed before the sweat on my brow rusts the filigree crown that floats just above my head. I lay down across the wide ground. I'm so tired. More than ever I find myself suited to this uniform gray.
