The Blues Bird
 
I've been waiting for the moon to make her way in, rising low with pale white light, coming down in a cold shine. There's nothing to whisper the silence away, all the ordinary stillness of a house settling in darkness. All that's ever-present is the buzzing of electronics, everything plugged in, slowly digesting electricity. There's a noise or two coming in from outside, the interloping insects, bashing themselves off my windows. I get low to the falling quiet, take a moment to drain off gently. In the moonshine, everything is a thing of beauty.

June 8, 2017
Beaconsfield, Nova Scotia