Drifting
Clouds of bubbles fitted in among the shards of tea leaves in my tea bag. There must be millions of them squirming around as the bag bobbles, vying to move upward, to surface, to breathe. Who is keeping track of them all? Do they all disappear or at least take a breather when I’m not looking?
I saw a flock of crows sweeping across the sky. Do crows really flock? Or are their gatherings always more incidental than not? And a solitary crow perched on a gossamer of nothing, the spirit limb extending from the twig in a 国画. A fuzzy blot so far up, it sways gently with the breeze that still smells like Fall.
It is the hardness that I fear. The sudden change in mood that makes me realize the sullen machine in the person. The subtle calcification of a simple gaze. The change from a smaller known to a greater unknown. Certain violent tendencies lurk there, as in 今、そこにいる僕.