09-29-2016, 05:14 AM
Confetti
In a tiny frame of sky squared by horizon, wire, and poles, just for an instant white confetti flashed a hundred glints and vanished; seconds later flashed again like silent fireworks. When hawks do this it’s called a kettle, swinging all together like the eye-wall of a hurricane but when they’re white it’s pelicans. I’ve spyglassed them for minutes turning all together, only when they bank throw sunlight from their wings. It’s just massed day-star twinkling, nothing really seen: could be angels but you’d hear their caroling.
Falling Again
I’m a little penguin, black, white belly, tiny wings that end in points, featherless, slick, oily, thick and flat - flightless cartoon rendering. Perched, balanced awkwardly on scaffolding that rings a giant methane storage tank, immense. Looking down, so far, much too high, land and oceans flat, cloud-cottoned, thousands of feet up. The scaffolding is made of cold, round metal pipes; inevitably slip and fall, terrified, not even hands to try and grip. Falling faster, wings spread uselessly, wind rushes, would be screaming if I could but voice never works. Then notice sea and land aren’t getting any closer - what’s the lesson here? Pure fright can’t last forever? No voice, falling, terror, clues click in: I’m dreaming. Turn the page, this nightmare will recur.
In a tiny frame of sky squared by horizon, wire, and poles, just for an instant white confetti flashed a hundred glints and vanished; seconds later flashed again like silent fireworks. When hawks do this it’s called a kettle, swinging all together like the eye-wall of a hurricane but when they’re white it’s pelicans. I’ve spyglassed them for minutes turning all together, only when they bank throw sunlight from their wings. It’s just massed day-star twinkling, nothing really seen: could be angels but you’d hear their caroling.
Falling Again
I’m a little penguin, black, white belly, tiny wings that end in points, featherless, slick, oily, thick and flat - flightless cartoon rendering. Perched, balanced awkwardly on scaffolding that rings a giant methane storage tank, immense. Looking down, so far, much too high, land and oceans flat, cloud-cottoned, thousands of feet up. The scaffolding is made of cold, round metal pipes; inevitably slip and fall, terrified, not even hands to try and grip. Falling faster, wings spread uselessly, wind rushes, would be screaming if I could but voice never works. Then notice sea and land aren’t getting any closer - what’s the lesson here? Pure fright can’t last forever? No voice, falling, terror, clues click in: I’m dreaming. Turn the page, this nightmare will recur.
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Non-practicing atheist