The air so calm this morning, as if yesterday's
falling snow, was a song poured down my throat. Chimes left in the wind, jangle
at every corner. Sneakers echoing and sputtering up the hill. Blowing each
breath back, as if I am filling balloons. Running dialogue with my sneakers, my
body channels into different times and places. Sunrays aim straight toward me
in an invasion of black swans on the coolest of my flesh. A hollow heard from
my ribcage echoes out my spine, as a shiver travels in disguise under the
prickling of goose bumps on my forearm. My pink tongue is lolling on beads of
cold perspiration, as flesh becomes a paintbrush wet, glistening in the chill
of December air.
My
suspicion is that the birds that flocked above me this morning during my early
morning run were sent to pull me from myself, pull me from deep self -
absorption. They grabbed hold of one of my threads in their beak and pulled me
along, as they inched me toward complete stillness.
As
I grab for my journal book, my mind unravels a thousand thoughts. I think on
paper, the place I sort out my life. The place I connect all those tiny prism
dots, the place with many beginnings, and few endings, the place that often
allows me not to speak in tongue at all.
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