When the Sun Comes Out So Do the Flyers
Bits of fluff float, tiny
whirligigs of aspirational intent
as effervescent as spring in the northwest —
ephemeral spring triggered by a shy sun
that came into its own.
We have been waiting.
White flies? Maybe.
You lift as if on thermals too tiny to note.
I imagine whirling dervishes slowed
to consider my sluggish awareness.
Oaf. Only two feet, no wings, no sense.
And a phone call from home. Or two.
Hold onto those floating vowels that don’t quite
connect the me to you – a frayed braided story.
Something about the universe flying
and the soft green of freshly folded leaves, aloft.
That day you were lost souls gathered
for a festival of warmth, respite from clay,
slow dancing only when absent fire is hot — not
here long. And how did we know you were lost?
The white dust gathered & glowed.
And flew.
/ / /
And more for our first gong.
The sky was cloudless, today.
First Warm Days bring flying creatures who seem to inhabit another world.
A FINE KETTLE OF FISH 