flickering through the still naked, silhouetted trees and spokes of my wheels, the fat, orange sun, falling out of this early evening, early spring sky, keeps pace with me home and hangs behind the church on the hill when I take a left.
Long day.
Long week.
March is a long month.
This is early morning of the year. Out of the cool, small hours of January, february,to the best part of the day.
All ahead, and my memory recalls summer, as the first blossoming sweetness,
an idea on the air, whispers past me on Silver Street.
Longed for.
For breezy skin and warm.
For light and water and sky-blue-big all over.
For the birdsong and buzz of it.
To run with arms wide open into the glorious, glowing life of it.
For the dying to be done.
