This is writing of the fowl so many have heard before – on a cold night, in Idaho.
When the breaker flips, and in the hallway rattles during a season you’d rather give up on – because it is cold, so our bodies would like us to believe.
Those drift with resemblance to something so far out there, and up there too with a shimmering green cycle, if you are willing to travel.
But the light is off, so you can only imagine.
In the wilderness where the space is only an extension, and you wonder about the transition from atmosphere to delay, where there is rectification.
And you are floating on a Rayet bubble, or in if words play.
On a wave as all has come before. If words play.
And you discover that it was you who you’d been listening to – in all those books… in all those poems, and you understand it would never be necessary to forget who taught you how to get here.
It was only necessary you helped them discover who they are.
And that you were willing to explain to the world; we are not alone.