a man shorn of his badge, his creed, his uniform, is a yearning thing,

and a woman without her apple tree a will-o’-the-wisp.

The mantle thrown, mask unworn, sojourner everyman, a little dark thing like a torched angel,

and the rays, the rays of regard like black light, all folded in a corner of the mind,

until the will-o’-the-wisp.

Parting from Urbana

April 27, 2013
Urbana was beautiful today. Birds standing quietly in the grass in the gentle rain. Moss on old wet bark, on bare white bark, white flowers hung among faded sienna leaves. Cherry blossoms, those maids of spring, abandoning their flowers to the rioting grass. Every tip of still-bare spindly trees hung with raindrops. All the green yet grave and calm. There will be life. For a moment, there will be life.


May 8, 2013
Grosbeaks and brown thrashers, cardinals and doves, and fifty fighting finches on my nondescript balcony. Summer is here.