The alphabet described itself, during the dry season, when warring tribes found themselves negotiating flesh for food, still moments which caused a Big-Person to stare up at the tree tops and wonder what it all means, a moment for words. Blinked, the line broke, songbirds interrupted with exclamation points and the trail curling through dense shrubbery functioned as the prototype for the first letter.
Passing along the sidewalk, encountering empty lots, finding the right words to describe a moment without tree tops. Police sirens deplete serenity, replace it with miniscule showcases of dry season, all too human, antics. Ink trails presented in sequence, conscript the TA-DA! of empty motions. Stationed where concrete recedes and shoreline depicts the horizon, ducks dip underneath the water, interrupt the Moon staring at its reflected blemishes, dark ripples break the surface, a duck submerges, obliterates silence by quacking.
(There’s no pleasure given in naming the sequence, but how else are we to appreciate what happened? Alignment of a period piece counteracts with morality required in real-time.)
Checking the wristwatch. Again. It’s midnight, but it felt as if yesterday was named instead.