Dear Z, it’s light that makes the river flow, or seem to flow. Efflorescence skipping from crest to crest as though it were a school of tiny fish
And disappearing beneath a bridge. A bolted, welded, seconds-long eclipse and then they flicker back again.
They’re harder to count than stars. More subject to vagaries, fancy, the weakness of belief. Are they matter
Or do they depend on matter’s movement. The hardly more substantial lifting them and losing them in troughs. Most of the time
I think like this. Unsure what can exist without an imprint. My reflection stutters in the windows of a speeding train and then I’m looking at a field of sheep
Black-faced and lazily intent. The glimmerings are flecks of time. I can’t decide whether they are truly in the moment or moments out of time, essence or deviation from the path.
There’s no conclusion here, no resolution myth. Things rise up and fall away as if they never were, rise up again. I think of them as my credentials, proof of who I am.
I like the dancing light, the scattered cloud, the river that lies potentially between its banks, the speeding train. I reach for them. They reach for me.