Aleatory sky: the low cumulus as plumped and still as if posing for a matte painting, fat gray doves of low clouds feathered against the dry-brushed scrim of pewter altostratus.
These bits of poems rattle around my skull like loose change; my fingers pick up their copper penny tang as I scratch for a pen, an unopened bill or scrap of receipt to jot them down, hold them still. It’s as random as a coin toss, this way, mutable as the weather and as surprising as that grasshopper that hitched a ride with me.
What is my work here, then? Which me does this, sitting in the interstices of a working day as quietly as a hunter in a blind? The shutters of sensory attention tripping open or closed: a signal in, then out, and the polyphonic voices riffing on rhythms I can’t hear unless I stop: field songs.