Bird song begins at a little before five. "My dreams are really bad." "This is my best day in my whole wide world life." The twenty sentences mean something different to everyone who uses them. Of course the reader is on my mind. That familiar star is overhead, too.
Both dogs out early. Waning gibbous seems wrongly placed on the horizon, like a broken dish set on the table. Pale cirrus clouds like perfectly situated mussels off to the north. Chrisoula tells me to get some sleep. At four a.m. one's life can seem compressed, mystically so, or as was the case at the window maybe an hour ago, painfully brief.
A rooster. The popping of night crawlers there in the dew. Basically form is a way of dragging my ass to the work when often (counter-intuitively) I don't want to be there. I used to wonder what the work was. Last night I dreamed I had become evangelical about the work. This mattered mostly to the wife of some guy who was clowning around in search of the work.
And now at last sunrise lightens the sky like slow-spilling melted butter. Yesterday we found an intact owl wing out in the forest. The heat made me dizzy and the landscape rippled, as if I were in a cheap horror flick where something awful was about to happen.
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