Sol Mi Do

The Golden-crowneds are, as best I can tell, already gone. Gone certainly are the days when their short, sad song set pace to the quiet days of winter. "Oh Dear Me" or, "I'm Lonely" as it's heard by the distressed and distraught. I'm partial to the busted 49er version: "No Gold Here"...if only for the element of ironic self-denial.

The fractured-compulsive babble of the polyglot, the self-righteous swainsonses' scream, it's all rubbish to the somniacal siren song of winter complacency: "Roll over."

Ones Would Be

right?

Goose Summer

At the margins, twilight, paranoia, magic, spun or spurned into reality. Virtual photons shimmer on the horizon. A boulder rolled back and the cat has gone inexplicably missing, always, already, again.

But these are spring sentiments.

The magic of spring is charming enough--bursting blossoms, hidden eggs. But the true spring is but a pale reflection of winter dreaming.

Autumn is the true season of magic, dark rites, sacrifice, communication with the dead...A memory from the fall: it is Goose Summer -- warm and lines of silk loop along the avenues, catching upon limb and lamppost.

I hear the collapsing call of swifts overhead--I squint and, maybe, see them, again. The vanguard of aerial biota, twisting and diving, surely sucking unfortunately lofty spiderlings into their gaping maw.

Our words already fade like leaves and our obfuscations, like the wind, have spirited us away.

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