(Which is, to say, silently.)
I thought there was something in my face, but it was only a spot of light, reflected off the mirror in the sky. Some satellites stir the sky green. Others comb the clouds for yellow. This one, the fiendish sky clown, has its sights set on me.
I can only wonder, as a bracing ennui sets in, and then I stop. Wondering that is. What’s the point? We’re all of us gazing tearfully at the sky, wondering when the moon will pickle or the birds come climbing down again.
I have no need for a bird ladder. And yet.